


Hourglass

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When strangers arrive in Hobbiton, Frodo is drawn onto a dangerous path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Amazing Flying Donkey

**Chapter One - The Amazing Flying Donkey**

It had started so slowly. Small interruptions, like rents in silk cloth, barely noticeable to those who didn’t look closely, and yet Sam saw it, a slow unravelling of his happiness. And then this afternoon, his duties in the kitchen done, he had walked to the study and knocking lightly, ritualistically, on the door, as he pushed it open, coming in for his five o’clock tea and talk with Frodo, he had stopped and stared. Over the cluttered desktop, still littered with letters and books, tenderly marked with the wilted sprays of lavender and jasmine that Sam brought with him and arranged in tiny, fragile vases, they were bent and coiled together. Frodo’s fingers were splayed and running through the wet ink on a sheet of parchment, drawing three hesitant black lines down the page. His mouth was buried and unseen, but his slender pale throat was exposed and arching under the hand that lay there. The back of the other was towards him and his mouth was filled with his master’s kisses. 

Sam had blinked and stared and a cold horror had stretched and stirred. He turned slowly and left the room, walking along the polished hallway, staring straight ahead, not bearing to look at a single thing. Everything had been altered in that one moment and nothing would ever be the same again. 

Sam returned to his work, burying his hands deep into the soil, like a repentant lover.

~~~

In Frodo’s study, on the mantelpiece there is an hourglass that once belonged to his mother. Sometimes, on a late summer afternoon, the light spills through the glass and glitters on every tiny grain of sand. Often he has held it gently and turned it in his hands. Frodo showed Sam first when he was very young, warning him to be careful – it was so fragile. He told him that it measured an hour in perfect proportion. When the last grain of sand slipped through, that hour was over and another begun. Sam watched the sand with open fascination; the slipping of measured time in a brilliant sliding silver stream. When it was nearly over, Sam would hold his breath as if he imagined his life might cease the minute the last grain settled. But, inevitably there would be another breath as there would be another minute and the hourglass would sit, innocent and patient on the shelf, holding within its belly a full minute of wonder and fulfilment.

Frodo would look down at him and smile, “You’d better be off, Sam, your dad will be wondering where you’ve got to,” he’d say, pleasant yet firmly dismissive. 

Sam would leave reluctantly, longing to spend just a few more precious moments in the quiet study, just watching the dancing sand and listening to the slow, throbbing heartbeat of the mantel clock. Everything was warm and safe in that room, and yet the very air was like a tinderbox, waiting to be struck. When he returned to the garden, his heart would be full as the hourglass, sparkling and safe, the knowledge of his love caught up in that one minute. 

Things changed so suddenly and without sense nor reason. Bilbo had gone, no one knew why or where, but he had most undisputedly gone and Frodo had retreated to his study, with heaps of paperwork to organise and a sadness that wrapped him in a solitude that was hard to penetrate, and those that knew him and loved him well were afraid for him but didn’t know how to tell it. Bag End was a quieter place than it had been and Mr Frodo kept himself to himself. Sometimes his cousins would come to call, but even they didn’t linger long – the atmosphere being so stuffy of late - and his master remote and cheerless. Frodo worked long, late into the night and Sam would call in last thing and check that all was well, popping his head around the study door peering into the dimly lit room. Frodo would be slumped over the desk reading through manuscripts or writing in a ledger, an oil lamp smoking at his elbow, the mantel clock ticking slowly, ponderously, marking the time. 

“Anything you need, sir?” Sam’s usual query - bright and sunny and utterly predictable. 

Mr Frodo wouldn’t even bother to raise his head. “No, thank you, Sam,” he’d reply, a slight furrow between his brows as he peered at his papers in the dismal light.

“Right you are then,” said Sam. 

Before he closed the door, Sam would steal a quick look at the hourglass standing on the mantel shelf – it’s hollow form, burnished gold in the lamplight as if it was filled up with flame – the only brilliant, shining thing in that dark, cheerless place. Sam would look at it longingly before he closed fast the door.

~~~

This long, dead time lasted for many months, but one afternoon, deep in the month of Blotmath, Frodo had wondered out into the garden, his eyes lonely and beseeching. Sam had been securing the tender plants against the forthcoming frosts that threatened to strike them down when Frodo had walked softly down the garden, wrapped in a thin coat, a cup of steaming tea clasped in his hands. Sam hadn’t even noticed him; he was so absorbed in his work.

“Tea, Sam?” Frodo spoke softly, hesitantly and Sam whirled round on his heels, in surprise. 

Frodo smiled nervously, billows of steam half concealing his face as he held the cup out to Sam. A cup it was – not a rough mug – a fine thing that belonged in the top cupboard. Sam looked at it in vague puzzlement and at the pale vision of his master shivering in the cold afternoon, framed by winter branches, gemmed with scarlet berries. 

“Aye, thank you, sir,” Sam said, reaching out, after deciding it was the only polite thing to do. He took a sip of tea and nodded at Frodo as he felt the warmth sliding down into his belly. 

Frodo sighed and swung on his heels, blowing his breath out in great dragon’s puffs. After several turns about the vegetable patch, running his hands through hectic dark curls, he came to an abrupt halt beside Sam and looked him full in the face. “Sam,” he said, “I’m bored rigid.”

Sam took another sip of tea and tried to still his trembling hands. 

Frodo paced up and down the stony path, poking at insolent weeds with his toes.  
“Is there a lot to do? There can’t be that much – not at this time of the year, surely?” 

“Well, there’s these here younglings to protect and some repair work to be done over on the south wall, it’s crumbling away on the right side against the plum tree and I’ve been meaning to have a go at it before the weather gets too hard.”

“Could the wall wait?” Frodo crouched down beside Sam and raised one hand to brush Sam’s cold cheek. “I’ve missed our talks,” he said, softly.

Sam looked up from his cup of tea and into the curiosity of his master’s irises, which bent his mind senselessly sideways. His fingers rattled against fine porcelain and he tightened them to still the motion. Frodo laid his fingers over Sam’s. “Come inside?”

Sam took in a deep, silent breath. “Aye, sir. I’ll just finish up here.”

That was how it had started. Being more. 

“Can you cook, Sam?” Frodo had asked, when Sam trotted into Bag End, painfully conscious of the dirt caked beneath his nails. 

Sam blushed and twisted his soft green felt hat between his hands. He had never liked it, despite it being one of the last things his ma had made for him, but now it comforted him and drew the words calmly from between his lips. “Aye,” he said. “A little.”

He had done whatever was required to secure his master’s comfort and happiness and had delighted in it. Frodo needed him – he admitted to Sam that he hadn’t had a decent meal since Bilbo had gone and was constantly hungry. So Sam raided his memory for the recipe of every good and nourishing meal that had ever passed his lips and he worked at them until they surpassed even his sister’s skills and watched with satisfaction as Frodo ate his food with eager pleasure.

After dinner they would retire to the parlour and Frodo would read to Sam as he had done when Sam was young. When the darkness fell, earlier and earlier every day, Sam would move around the room, lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains against the night. That was the time he enjoyed the most, the intimacy of the panelled room, burnished to honey in the warm glow of the lamplight and sweetly scented with apple wood and old leather. Frodo’s soft voice lulling him as he curled into the wide leather chair, looking into the flames, listening to the tales his master read from the great heavy books, leafing through the pages with light fingers. Sometimes Sam would lose himself in the stories and find it hard to surface when the mantle clock chimed nine and the time had passed and gone.

He would rise at last, bleary and love struck and bid his master goodnight. 

“Same time tomorrow, Sam?” Frodo would ask, raising a sleepy, anxious face.

“Five o’clock, sir,” he said, donning his hat and nodding a brief farewell. 

When he walked out of the door and out into the chill air, Sam had to suppress a great whoop of joy and force his feet to walk in a sensible line, when all they wanted to do was dance.

~~~

Sometimes they would play games together, enjoying the freedom of the empty rooms and passages, skating up and down polished floors, their feet skidding on the polish that would be applied every Astron in big, sweet honeyed pots and lasted all the year, gleaming golden in the swirling figuring of the cherry wood. Sam laughed as he slid up against the side of a forbidding, over-sized dresser that stood in the hallway, its two great doors, bursting with the pressure of thirty black umbrellas. Frodo watched, delighted, giggles bursting from beneath the clasped hands that covered his mouth as Sam shook his head, blushing – amazed and appalled at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Frodo said, catching his breath, “Somehow I just never felt I could – it wasn’t as if Bilbo was a staid old stick or anything – he just wouldn’t have wanted the disturbance – he did like his routine, you see, despite his other … errr inclinations…”

Sam beamed, nodding and trying to wipe his sniggers away with the back of his sleeve, blushing and horrified with himself. 

“Come on, Sam, let’s do it again!” 

Oh, he could be so easily persuaded, sliding behind his master, all the way under the arch, reaching out as his feet flailed beneath him. He grabbed hold of the back of his master’s breeches as they both tumbled and fell, their legs crumpled and waving in the air like broken craneflies. 

They were children again and Sam indulged him in everything, enjoying the delightful glimpses offered to him of a Frodo he had never known. 

One afternoon, Frodo persuaded Sam to join him in a grand exploration of Bag End’s winding honeycomb of cellars, pulling him down the dark stairs, all prepared with lamps and sturdy hats to defy the cobwebs. Mr Frodo had donned a soft black hat that framed his face, perfectly. Sam tried not to pay attention to the way his heart nearly burst with appreciation. The dark and musty air stifled them as they wound their way through room after room of unidentifiable history, piled on shelves and heaped in corners – bottles and books, old chests and barrels, dusty jars and pudding bowls littered with needles and pins, wire and string and tarnished spoons. Mr Frodo lifted a book off the top of a teetering pile, releasing a plume of dust from its ochre cover. A small, pale moth fluttered out and ventured upwards into the vaulted ceiling. Sam looked up and felt dizzy with happiness. 

They had found no treasure, only three broken little books that Frodo felt held some promise after translation and a bottle of something that Sam recognised as Flying Donkey Ale – a rare and dangerous draught. These they carried back with them and set out upon the kitchen table as though they were marvels. 

Sam looked out at the sky that was fading to dusk in streaks of scarlet and rose. Frodo turned up the wick of the lamp he carried. “What time is it? I hadn’t realised we’d been down there that long!” he said, frowning at the gloomy, cheerless kitchen. The fire had burned down to darkly glowing embers and the rest of the room was in shadow. 

“It’s late,” said Sam, gathering wood from the log basket to re-kindle the fire, “near seven, I shouldn’t wonder - you’ve missed dinner, sir!”

“I was enjoying myself too much, Sam, I quite forgot such simple necessities. Don’t bother yourself with dinner – we’ll eat cold.”

“No Mr Frodo, it’s chill enough without something warm in your belly. I’ll cook something up in no time, don’t you fret!” 

And Sam set to – rifling through the store cupboard for vegetables and the cupboards for some barley and bread. He soon had a big cauldron of stew bubbling richly over the hearth and a pot of steaming tea to pour into his master’s cup. Frodo sat at the table watching him and chatting away as he flicked through the musty pages of his newest treasures. Sam coughed when he approached - the old, decaying parchment making him screw up his nose. Frodo smiled and inhaled deeply.

“Don’t you like it, Sam?” he said, holding the book close to his face. “I love this smell. It reminds me of my secret forays into the Brandy Hall library for forbidden books to read under the covers. It’s the smell of excitement and anticipation – of pleasure yet to be revealed.”

“Yes, well, it gets up me nose, Sir, and no mistake,” said Sam, rubbing it with the back of his hand as he retreated to the hearth to stir the simmering stew. He tossed in a few winter herbs, a little salt and laid a tray with bread and softened butter in a small white dish. “I thought you might like to eat in the parlour, it’s warmer there.”

“Very well, Sam,” Frodo sighed and opened his mouth in a cavernous yawn that, to Sam’s disbelief, left his master’s face softened and more beautiful yet, his eyes drowsy. “But only if you’ll join me,” Frodo added.

~~~

They ate together that night, informally, side by side in the warm parlour, on the rug close against the hearth. Sam had poured the stew into wide bowls that they balanced on their knees and they tore off bread, as they needed it, sopping up the juices as common folk do. Sam felt put at ease by this simple gesture and his reserve dropped a little more, so that he could enjoy his meal and the company, without worrying that he had overstepped his place. It was the best that Sam had ever tasted and he felt only warm companionship as he sat chewing and listening to the soft pattering of snow against the windowpanes.

When they had finished their meal, Frodo went to the kitchen to fetch his books and Sam uncorked the bottle of Flying Donkey. It was indeed, a most potent brew and Frodo nearly choked on his first sip, unprepared for the full force of the punch.

“Careful now, sir,” said Sam, raising an eyebrow, “It ain’t for the faint hearted.”

“And who says my heart is faint?” Frodo replied, taking another sip and battling down the resulting spasm. 

Sam grinned and took a long draught then settled back against the settee, his head resting against the soft cushions, his feet poking towards the fire, which nicely warmed his toes.

“Show off!” Frodo said, prodding Sam with a toe.

Sam jumped at the contact and looked his master in the eye. There was nothing reflected in Frodo’s but merriment and teasing. “Flying Donkey?” Frodo said, slowly drawling the name across his tongue, as if he was tasting it or testing it for warmth.

“Aye, that’s the name,” Sam replied. “You’ve heard of the grand display, I suppose, Mr Frodo? The fifteenth of Astron in the age of my great grandda it was – the trick was tried by many after that date – but none came out of it all in one piece as Filbert Goatriddle did.”

“Filbert Goatriddle?” Mr Frodo had the sniggers again.

“Aye,” said Sam, his mouth quirking, “He was a travelling showman, sir, all about the Shire he pedalled his shows of spectacle and courageous ingenuity. He could do anything, they said. He could fall off a mountain and land on his feet with gold in his pocket and a riddle on his lips. A small man he were, and bearded, so folk say he came from Bree – but it ain’t really known – for he was a stranger and a magician and so he came from somewhere up in the clouds as far as most folks were concerned. There were tales that his ma had been encouraging the attentions of dwarf folk – but I trust that is just cheek and slander and nowt to do with the truth, so I won’t go into that if you don’t mind, sir.” 

Frodo shook his head and nudged Sam to continue with a flick of his toe.

“Well then, where was I? Oh yes, well one summer, hot it was and cool by the Water, Old Goatriddle comes by on his cart, all loaded up with tricks and feats ready for the amazement of those who lingered by the banks, splashing their feet. A lot of hobbits were sitting on the bridge idle, for it was a holiday and a day for relaxing and taking your ease. All of them turned and shouted to Filbert – ‘Show us a trick! Show us a trick we ain’t never seen!’ So old Filbert, he jumps down from his wagon, pulling his beard and stamping his feet, ‘Aye, I will at that!’ he shouts. He had a little voice, despite his great reputation and had to holler to make folk hear. ‘Just you watch this, lads and lassies, just you watch!’ So he proceeds to pull out of his wagon a length of rope, thick and strong, ell ‘pon ell, unravelling into his hands, the longest rope there ever was. But that wasn’t the trick, sir; no, that was just the start of it, see? Old Filbert, he threw one end of the rope to a lad who’s sitting on the bridge. ‘Take this end,’ he shouts, ‘and tie it to the top of yon mill!’ He had to repeat this several times, for he had a little voice for a big trickster and the lad was a little addle pated with ale, truth be told. But eventually, after a little encouragement from his friends, he ran to the mill, raced up to the top and tied up the rope to the sails, which weren’t going round, as it were a holiday and the miller was up to his chin in ale down the Dragon.

Old Filbert, he looked around for another high summit and it dawned on him that there was nowt taller roundabouts than the Party Tree, so’s he threw the other end to a lad who was waiting on the riverbank and sent him off to tie the other end to the top of yon tree. So it was done and then a grand crowd gathered to see this rope stretched so taut and high across the water. When the folks were all assembled and gawping, Old Filbert cracked his knuckles and released the ass that stood at the wagon’s head. ‘This here, ass!’ he shouts, grand as you like. ‘This here ass will perform a trick of such death defying magnificence as to leave you gasping with astonishment. Now attend, as we ascend!’ And so he takes the donkey up to the mill and they climb up, up, up to the very top and the crowd below, whispers and gasps and waits for them to appear. When they finally emerge, there is a great shouting and a shushing as the poor beast is eased out onto the rope, clad in shoes of heavy lead, a great weight they were, or else the beast would come clattering to a halt. No-one dares to breathe, as Old Filbert, clambers out of the window and onto the back of the dangerously swaying ass that is straddling the rope and braying fit to burst.

‘Attend!’ he shouts, his voice nearly lost amidst the excited babble that fills the air, ‘As we descend!’ and lo, both hobbit and donkey are propelled forwards and whiz down the rope like it were buttered and slippery as grease. Old Filbert cheers and whistles and waves his hands as he flies over the heads of the hobbits below. T’was a grand success and the cheers were deafening as he skimmed the head of the astonished miller, who had just returned from his afternoon at the alehouse. Never had such a feat been seen in the Shire since or shall ever be seen again, most likely.” 

Sam shut his mouth and turned to Frodo, who was looking into the fire, with a small, agitated furrow between his brows, which meant that he was troubling over something.

“But what happened to the donkey?” he said, after a moment.

“Oh, he crashed head first into the Party Tree and stunned himself good and proper. Old Filbert flew off and landed on the folks lookin’ up from below. Luckily he didn’t weigh much … unlike the donkey…”

“Oh,” said Frodo, wincing. 

“Exactly,” said Sam, taking another sip of ale and realising, with amazement, that he had drained his mug dry.  
They sat for a time, in quiet contentment. The pattering against the windows had quickened now and both sat up to watch the white flakes hitting the glass and sliding down in wet trails. Frodo sighed and stretched out, so that their feet were nearly touching. They both knew that time was passing and soon Sam would have to go home.

“Do you know?” Frodo said. “When Merry and I were living at Brandy Hall, we used to have secret parties at night. Other lads used to sneak into our rooms and we’d scare each other witless with ghost stories and eat cakes stolen from the pantries. They were some of the happiest times of my life.”

“Did you ever get caught?” Sam asked, his eartips glowing red in the warmth of the fire.

“No-one ever found out, Sam, we were very devious. Or if they did, they never said. We had a lot of freedom in that way. Brandy Hall was big and we could get lost in it and no one would ever find out. It feels good to be naughty now and again, don’t you think, Sam?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Sam replied, smiling softly.

“You’ve never done anything wrong, anything wicked?” Frodo probed, his toe creeping inch by inch up Sam’s shin. Sam watched its slow progress and shivered.


	2. Black Ice

If Sam had possessed the power to stop time – he would have chosen that moment and frozen it – so that he might look at it again and again, reliving and reviving. Frodo pressed so close against him, he could feel the sharp bones of his shoulder digging into his skin, through the fabric of his shirt. Sam’s heart thudded and his eyes dared not stray from their fixed point – the carved rose in the ceiling, burgeoning and blossoming, entwined by thorns. When he breathed in, shallow and shuddering, he breathed in his Frodo – the sweet skin beneath the dusty cotton, the ink and leather stained fingers, the winter herbs with their powerful fragrances still lingering on his lips and his tongue. All of this and more that could not be caught. 

 

Frodo laughed lightly, his foot still curled around Sam’s calf, stroking in a slow, leisurely manner. “It’s all right, Sam, you needn’t look so frightened – I won’t tell.” 

 

Sam dragged his eyes away from the flickering shadowed rose, golden and shining, awakening in the darkness, like the promise of love - and he looked at Frodo and saw lightness and laughter shining within bright, eager eyes. There was no terror there, no tenuous flame – only amusement and a little nervous anticipation. 

 

“Well?” he said, stroking Sam slowly with his toe, seeming amused by Sam’s discomfiture.

 

Sam shuffled a little more upright and turned his head to the window, where the snow had already begun to settle and two inches of darkness covered the bottom of the glass. 

 

He spoke quietly, his voice half shaken. “Once, when everyone was asleep, I walked naked in the snow.” 

 

He knew what this meant. He knew the decision he was making and the seal he had put on it by his choice of revelation. He was setting out on a dangerous and forbidden path, one from which he might never return. His eyes fell to his lap, where the evidence of his desire swelled the front panel of his breeches, his hands ineffectually trying to hide and disguise, but only drawing Frodo’s eyes down. 

 

“Wasn’t it cold?” Frodo asked quietly, the smooth strokes of his toes slowing a little.

 

“Yes, it was freezing, my fingers turned blue.”

 

“But you knew that, of course, you just wanted to feel how it felt.”

 

Sam nodded and twisted his hands awkwardly, heat rising and falling as if the hearth was inside him and all the light and burning in the room emanated from him. Frodo was silent for a while, all movement ceased and stilled. Frodo was unreadable sometimes, and Sam loved him for his thoughtfulness, but now it was troubling. 

 

“Was it worth it – was it good?” Frodo asked, turning his gaze full upon him, flaring the love in Sam, catching it bright and leaping.

 

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes were fixed on Frodo’s full, curving mouth, so like a flower opening and closing. He longed to run his tongue along the measure of it until it closed around him and welcomed him within. 

 

“Was it good?” Frodo repeated, watching Sam intently.

 

“It was cold,” he replied, tilting his head, drawn in. 

 

Frodo’s eyes flickered closed and the breath he exhaled shuddered across Sam’s mouth as it rested over his. Frodo twisted his body so that he lay half across Sam’s lap, his arms rising up to tangle in the curls that grew soft in the nape of Sam’s neck.

 

Sam was drowning, his eyes shut tight, as their tongues moved together in a slow rhythm, deeper and deeper. Sam moaned and Frodo tightened his grip, moving his knees to either side of Sam’s sturdy hips, and pulling him closer. Sam’s body pressed up instinctively and Frodo rubbed his hips slowly, up and down. Sam could taste the ale and the rosemary in Frodo’s mouth and he knew that Frodo would taste the same in his. Only when the kiss finally softened to light sucks and bites and Frodo tried to draw away a little, holding Sam’s face between his hands, did Sam remember to breathe. He raised a hand and touched his fingers against Frodo’s swollen lips, pink and half parted. Frodo closed his eyes, dark lashes fanning over pale skin, and slid Sam’s finger inside his mouth, sucking tightly, until both cheeks were hollows of darkness. Sam gasped and his other hand raked through Frodo’s silken hair, grasping and smoothing restlessly. 

 

When Frodo released the finger, pushing it out with the tip of his tongue, he sighed deeply and fell against Sam, his face pressed into his chest, right where Sam’s heart was hammering. Sam embraced Frodo with a burning possessiveness and waited, feeling the hope inside him stretching as thin and perilous as a tightrope. 

 

Once he had stood at the mantel piece in his work clothes, holding the hourglass, and hoping the last grain of sand might leap up and begin the hour all over again. Wanting the time to belong to him only so he might follow the urges of his heart. That was what made him take off all his clothes and walk in the snow. The silence of the night and the dead of winter, with no one to dictate, only him, making his own choices. 

 

“Frodo…” he whispered, more a breath than real words spoken, his mouth seeking, hands travelling down Frodo’s back, cupping and cradling. Frodo moaned softly from deep within his throat, and suddenly his hips began to move in quick, startled thrusts, hardness grinding repeatedly against Sam’s own sensitive flesh. Sam gasped at the sudden burning pleasure that trod so close to pain. He gripped his fingers tightly around fragile shoulders, his mouth moving on pale, cool skin that tasted so good, he wanted to devour it. 

 

Sam moaned aloud, his tongue moving in restless circles upon what he could reach, the soft white skin which the curls had laid bare on Frodo’s neck, a place untouched by the sun and soft as a babe. He grasped Frodo’s hips and urged him on, despite the agony of the cloth chafing between them, cruel and insensitive. He longed to feel Frodo’s skin against his own, but he could do nothing but bite down blindly as the orgasm took him too soon and Frodo sobbed, loud in the quiet room and sagged against him once more, breathing heavily. 

 

Frodo sat up and brushed the hair out of heavy lidded eyes, his breathing ragged and his cheeks flushed. Sam wanted to speak. He wanted to raise his hand and pull Frodo back into a lover’s kiss, but he did neither – only lolled against the settee, his legs splayed on the rug like an unstrung marionette - watching, dumbstruck and amazed. He raised his eyes as Frodo staggered to his feet, lurching a little and holding onto the mantel piece for support, his eyes drawn to the flames. 

 

The sand had drained to the bottom of the glass. There was a sparkling garden within it now – glittering silver like a frosty night. But the time was done and Sam would go home. 

 

He stood, his legs trembling beneath him. 

 

He waited until there seemed no more sense in waiting. “Same time tomorrow then, sir?” he said, uncomfortably aware of his sodden and crumpled breeches.

 

Frodo didn’t move. “Five o’clock,” he said softly, “in your own time.”

 

“Aye,” Sam sighed, looking around for his coat and hat. 

 

“In the kitchen,” Frodo offered, still as a statue, his profile bathed in gold. 

 

“Right then,” Sam mumbled, “Night, sir.”

 

“Sleep well, Sam.”

 

Sam inclined his head and left the room. Wandering into the dark kitchen, he found his discarded hat and coat and pulled them on, his body still throbbing as he pushed open the door and latched it from the inside. The icy air struck him and scorched his warm cheeks as he strode out into the bright, new world laid out before him, still and pensive, awaiting the tread of his feet and the bloom of his hot breath on the unbroken air. 

 

If only he had turned back then – spoken to Frodo one word of love. 

 

But he was entranced and drunk, walking out into the white world thinking himself blessed, blissfully unaware that the fragile thread of his dream was already breaking in the warm room he had abandoned.

~~~

Sam was woken early the next morning, dragged from a dreamless sleep that weighted him so deeply, it was difficult to rise, despite the Gaffer’s hard words and insistent barking cough that rent the air.

 

“Mari – fetch the bucket!” Daisy shouted from the kitchen.

 

“Get up, you slug-a-bed – you’d be sleeping whilst other folk’s are freezing from the cold.” 

 

Sam felt a cold splash of water on his cheek and he sleepily brushed it off with the back of his hand, frowning. 

 

“Samwise Gamgee – you should be ‘shamed of yourself!” Another cold splash and a trickle raced down his neck, bringing him round to cold consciousness and a pounding head. “Drinking on a work night, dad’s in a thunder, Sam. I’d be on my feet if I were you.”

 

Sam dragged his body from the bed and he felt a net of butterflies rising in his stomach. Another splash of water. “All right, all right,” he grumbled, “You can put the bucket down now, Mari, I’m up.”

 

Mari smiled and shook her head, looking too bright for such a dark and early hour on a cold morning, but she put the bucket down. “The ice has froze the water, Sam and half of Hobbiton needs digging out.”

 

Sam shivered in the cold room and pulled on a woollen shirt from the chest at the foot of his bed. Then he found an overcoat of soft green fleece and the hat made by his mother’s hands and put them on also. On his way through the kitchen, he grabbed a hunk of bread and a mug of strong tea, which he consumed standing. He downed the tea in three long gulps, which seared his throat and swallowed down his bread without tasting it.

 

“I’ll be off then, dad,” he said, bracing himself against the icy air that drifted in through the doorframe. 

 

“You’ll be going nowhere without a good breakfast inside of you!” Mari said firmly, ladling thick porridge into four wooden bowls. 

 

“Where you off to in such a rush, anyway?” His dad raised his grey eyes from the mug of tea he was stirring sugar into and fixed his son with a stare. 

 

“Bag End – where else?” Mari said, passing the bowls around the table and giving Sam a sly and amused glance. 

 

“Well Mr Frodo ain’t the only hobbit we should be serving today, Sam,” his dad continued. “There’s plenty more in need of a strong hand. Bag End will do well enough, there’s water on tap there and storerooms stocked up to the roof – himself won’t freeze nor starve.” He started scooping porridge into his mouth, grey it looked and unappetising. “Eat.” He indicated the empty chair and, for Sam, the world suddenly condensed back into orders and commands, subservience and duty, his dad would brook no arguments in his home. 

 

Sam sank into the empty chair and began to eat.

~~~

The fierce cold bit into Sam’s hands, even through the thick leather gloves he wore, lifting the snow away from the Widow’s door, block by block, the whiteness blinding him as he blinked in the stark light. The sun, having reached its full height now began to fall in the pale red sky. The black snow clouds were re-gathering their strength and still there was so much snow to clear, Sam was beginning to despair. He had been left to finish the job – his dad’s cough having worsened during the morning. By lunch time he had been doubled over and shivering fit to jolt the teeth from his head – so Sam had sent him home and promised to finish the work himself, shovelling and scraping a path for the Widow to tread, from her front door to the road beyond. His dad had been reluctant to give in to what he saw as weakness, but Sam had managed to sound firm and competent enough to re-assure him and he had walked home without a second glance.

 

The widow watched Sam’s progress from the window, all wrapped in spidery shawls, pointing at the snow as if she might dispel it with sheer impatience. Sam tried not to give in to the angry frustration that he felt churning inside and turned with another heap of snow loaded in the barrow, pushing it unsteadily down the icy little track he had cleared and piling it onto the drifted bank outside the garden wall. When he straightened, he clapped his hands to dislodge the snow from them and looked down the hill to the Water. Frozen overnight, it reflected the sky – red swallowing red – with skittering black shapes moving over it – small as ants – slowly sliding from one bank to the other. Sam shook his head; some have nowt better to do.

 

A soft flake of snow settled on the tip of his nose as he watched a small black shape sliding across the ice on one foot, like a black crow circling an arc in a wintry sky. Halfway across, he lost his balance and fell - the ice creasing beneath him in a thousand tiny wrinkles - thin and dangerously close to breaking. Sam frowned, the water would be cold enough to still the blood and the ice was groaning audibly in the still air, it’s lilting sighs reaching Sam’s ears and sparking alarm. He started to walk down the hill, leaving his barrow on the path, still brushing snow from his hands, even as his feet began to run. More snowflakes were falling now, deceptively soft and whispering against his ears, cold searing his skin. 

 

 _What time is it? Will it soon be dark? Has the hour passed already?_ The voice in his head ran on as he closed the distance to the water, his feet skidding and sliding.

 

_He will be in the study now, listening to the time passing, feeling the cold stiffening of his fingers as they flex around his pen, drained of ink, a white mountain of papers at his elbow. The cold will be intensifying, the hearth grey and dead – waiting to be lit. As the snow clouds gather, the light will fade until he can hardly make out the words he writes, blinking and rubbing tired eyes, as if the fault is his own and not the snow that enfolds him, closing him in the smial alone._

_I will come to you, Frodo, soon,_ he promises. There are cries on the air, shouts and wails and confusion as the snowflakes fall thick and fast upon the drifted fields, over the ice, forming patterns like lace. 

 

“Hoy! Hoy there!” 

 

There were shouts even before Sam reached the bank. He ploughed on, grasping a rope from someone’s hands, bracing his feet on the slippery bank, calling out to grab, snow filling his mouth. The hobbits behind him were heaving with all their strength and the ice, hidden in a blizzard, creaked, snapped and groaned, broken plates moving and sliding down, opening into blackness and oblivion. A crowd had gathered on the bank – gawping and gasping – as if this were some great entertainment put on for their amusement and the hobbit in the water, perfecting a conjuring trick, as he emerged from the ice, blue and dripping – his body a crumpled, stiff doll lying on the snowbank. 

 

A matron ran forwards, her arms full of blankets and wrapped the doll up tightly, tutting and shaking her head. Having done her duty, she shuffled away with the crowd, back to her warm smial, taking her daughter’s arm and walking, head down and whispering out of the corner of her mouth. Many more moved off; the spectacle over, all were anxious to return to their cosy firesides and a warm drink of cider to thaw the chill. Soon all that were left were Sam and those that had risked their lives upon the ice. The snow was easing off, the heavy flakes giving way to exhausted tiny fragments of wet ice that slivered down his neck and into his ears. 

 

Sam looked at his companions, observing them clearly for the first time. Two stood close together, muttering and watching the marks their footprints made in the snow, scuffing and dirtying the pristine white, their heads bowed close. They looked like brothers. The hair on the heads of these hobbits was as black as the ice at the bottom of the water and grew long and twisted about their necks. One of the hobbits had braided his in places with the brightly coloured rags his sisters sometimes used to create ringlets. But there was nothing feminine about the faces of these two strangers – they had black eyes and strong, fierce countenances, long full mouths and high, sharp cheeks. Their clothes were rough and mended, around their necks were brightly patterned scarves and on their feet - long boots that reached their knees. 

 

Sam stared openly at the boots, for it wasn’t often seen and affirmed Sam’s belief that these were travellers, passing through on their way to the Yule Fair at Michel Delving in two weeks time, probably hoping for a bit of work along the way to keep the wolf from the door. They were often seen passing through Hobbiton in the folds of the year – at Yuletide and Lithe. They were tolerated but not welcomed by the small minded folk who were always suspicious of those who kept different ways. But Sam had a more generous view – for he had worked with many, in the fields and orchards and found them to be, in the main, hardworking and generous as long as you minded their privacy. They were good storytellers too and fond of music. Sam had spent many a long evening beside them listening to the pipe or hearkening to the tales and had felt, within his soul, a kinship and acceptance that he had long been craving. When they moved on he would feel their loss and the world would seem quieter and duller – as if a single, bright colour had been drained from his life. 

 

He looked down at the hobbit crouching over his friend who lay shivering in his arms.

 

“Can he walk, or shall I give you a hand carrying him back? My place is near; we’ll warm him up and give him some broth. He needs to be warmed up quick as possible – a bath would be best – except we haven’t the water – we’re heating up ice and it takes a long while to warm.” 

 

The hobbit raised his head, cool grey eyes meeting his in deep mistrust. “He can walk,” he said.

~~~

Together they managed to raise the shaking body to its feet and Sam bent his head to look into a face half shielded with black hair, waves of which clung to pale lips and half closed eyes the colour of shadow. They rolled upwards and pierced him, as if they were prying into his soul. Sam shivered and turned away.

 

“Here, I’ll lift him from this side, you take the other arm,” he spoke quickly, briskly taking control, even as the strangers exchanged dark glances with each other and, regarding him with obvious suspicion, formed an impenetrable circle around their companion.

 

“Do you want your friend to live?” he asked, and watched them share a second look before circling and lifting, one beneath the other arm, the other two hefting from behind, supporting and lifting the half drowned hobbit and carrying him up the road, striding over the icy ridges left by the scraping shovels. Sam slipped and gritted his teeth as he climbed, but the boots served the strangers well and they didn’t falter once upon the hill. They reached Number Three, still thankfully accessible from without. 

 

“Bring him through!” Sam urged. The others paused, lingering on the doorstep, sharing unsettled glances, urgent and meaningful as if they were communicating through thought. 

 

Bring him through, Sam had said. Bring him through. Bring him into the warm…

 

They carried him into the small, cramped kitchen of Number Three. They were large for hobbits and seemed to fill the little space, as if there wasn’t room for them and their shadows that spilled across the homely table, set for dinner. Daisy was at the stove, stirring the evening meal in the pot. She paused as they entered; the wooden spoon half raised to her mouth, ready to taste. Her eyes widened and her mouth stilled, slightly open. 

 

“Here, Daisy, give us a hand!” Sam grunted, urging the others forwards and settling the trembling body into his Gaffer’s comfortable chair beside the fire – now roaring with fresh logs donated by the Cottons. Once he was set down – the hobbit’s head fell back and he seemed to fall into a swoon, cold convulsions making his full lips clench and then flex over and again. His cheeks were flushed and his dark eyes roved behind wet tendrils of curling hair. Despite his instinct to seek remedies and blankets, Sam stilled for a moment and stared. The hobbit looked young, younger than he had first thought and frailer than the other three, who were standing over him like black guardians, frowning and shuffling their booted feet on the wooden floor. 

 

Daisy stared, frowning down at their feet. “Sam?” she hissed, pulling him aside. “Sam? Why’ve you brought them here?” 

 

He grabbed Daisy by the shoulder and pulled her against the hearth, feeling his own unease stirring at the sight of his sister’s anxious eyes and wringing hands, twining within his own. “Sam! You’re half frozen, yourself. Here…” she ladled him some broth into a mug and passed it into his stiff, red hands. 

 

“What else could I do? Sit and watch a hobbit die beside the Water? Do nowt?”

 

“You’re too good, Sam, you’ll get you’self into trouble one of these days…”

 

Sam attempted a smile as he walked over to the group of hobbits huddled over the fire, their hands outstretched. He passed the mug to the hobbit in the chair, who had sat up a little and was leaning over towards the blaze, his face illuminated in all of its mysterious angles and planes. It was a young face, but a worldly one and Sam was as uneasy as he was enthralled. Sam offered him the mug and he reached out trembling hands to take it from him. After taking a deep sip, he looked up and rewarded Sam with a look – eye to eye. 

 

“Thanks,” he said, in an accent that Sam couldn’t place. 

 

The hobbit took two more sips, then his head fell back once more and he closed his eyes. 

 

“Sam?” 

 

Mari stood in the doorway to the bedrooms, her eyes starting from her head. “What?”

 

The strangers turned to look and Sam moved forwards, pushing Mari back into the dark corridor that separated one bedroom from the other. 

 

“I found him in the Water, half drowned. They’d been walking on the ice,” he muttered, briefly, already wanting this to be over – wishing and regretting – his mind full of Frodo. 

 

“Walking on the ice – idiots! Well, they deserve all they get, if you ask me. Well, we can’t look after him here, Sam.”

 

“Mari, be generous. They live in wagons - there’ll hardly be warmth enough there to keep him alive!” 

 

Mari shook her head and folded her arms, looking the image of his Ma. “Dad’s taken bad, we’ve enough to do with keeping him comfy. There’s no hot water – and no spare bed and – well – look at ‘em - really Sam, what were you thinking?”

 

Sam shook his head. “So I shall turn them out, then? Have you been out, Mari? It’s freezing, there’s black ice on the roads.”

 

Mari sighed deeply and took Sam by the scruffy curls on the top of his head, twisting and shaking gently. “The answer’s staring you in the face – numbskull!” 

 

Sam blinked and looked Mari in the eye as she gentled her hand and ran a light caress across his cheek. “Take him up the Hill,” she said.


	3. As the Crow Flies

_Frodo was running, running so fast he could feel the power of the air striking his face, roaring in his ears, tearing at his throat, making him want to scream and yell and choke. It was wonderful…and in his hands, soft and slippery with wet earth were the pale white wonders themselves, so many that they tumbled to the ground like marbles. He hadn’t time to pick them up – no, he must leap the far hedge fast – the dogs were mad with the chase – larger than he remembered – always a surprise – how fast they caught the trail. He could hear the shouts of his friends, leaning over the hedge, holding out their hands, urging him on, calling … “Frodo! Frodo! Hurry!” He could outrun them all, by sheer force of will and the joy of the chase that sent him flying, fleeing, jumping the hedge. Oh, the thrill, the running, the danger!_

_Always lurking on the borders of all that was civilised and safe._

 

Frodo looked down at what he had drawn – a maze of concentric circles winding one into the other, claustrophobic on the cream paper, flat, square and formal with his address printed in the left hand corner. He took it in his hand and screwed it up - watching the crumpled folds trying to open once again. He sat up, stretched and yawned, looking up at the clock on the mantel piece absently, as if he hadn’t looked there a thousand times already during the past hour. The hand slid slowly across the number six, bringing in its wake, a shiver of disquiet. 

 

Frodo took several slow turns around the room, like a partner-less dancer in some kind of reel, moving in and out of the patterns of firelight, watching where his feet trod, avoiding the shadows, moving only in the light spaces on the patterned rug, side stepping the green. When he had driven himself to distraction – he threw another log onto the fire and left the room and its infernal ticking silence.

 

Blast! But he was cold. He had been working through some dry documents concerning land rights and property, trying to stifle his mind into submission, like cramming down dry toast. But his pen had stilled and left an opening – letting in those thoughts he had been holding at bay. Once through they gleefully flooded his mind and drained him utterly. He hadn’t even moved to tend the fire or make his own dinner. 

 

_Sam isn’t here. Sam hasn’t come._

 

He wandered into the kitchen - the fire had burned low and the room was dark and cold. Frodo bent to open the stove and pushed in several more cherry logs. They sizzled and snapped into life as he sat, crouched, thawing his fingers and rubbing them back to life. 

 

It was in moments like these that he felt the weight of the old place. He sensed the darkness of the empty rooms stretching out one into the other, down the passage and under his feet, in cellars and larders, all unoccupied and empty – little dark places. And encompassing all was the silence. So intense, it burned his ears, heightening his senses until they were keen enough to hear the settling snow on the hilltop, weighting him further down into the smial. His home. 

 

The kettle wailed and he made a pot of tea. After a quick forage in the pantry, he found a tin of gingerbread that Sam had made two days previously, still moist with all the black treacle he had spooned in. Frodo had watched him slyly licking the spoon when he had thought Frodo wasn’t looking. Sam wasn’t very good at deviousness – unlike Frodo – he was an open book. When he was guilty, his eyes told the tale and when he was sad – it was in the droop of his mouth and when he was happy … well it shone from him and couldn’t be misunderstood. 

 

Frodo stirred honey into his tea. Too much, it would be cloying but it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t taste it, his thoughts were running too fast. He took some gingerbread and broke it in half between his fingers, crumbling it, rich and dark and spiced. 

 

_What was I thinking? Had I been thinking at all? No, not really - just feeling, sensing, enjoying, playing games. But I wasn’t alone. I shared with Sam. I touched Sam! Sam was complicit in it – the danger, the thrill – the chase. And afterwards, he walked away innocent and I was left undone. My body aches to see him again – to see him in the light of this – of what we have awoken. Will he be the same? Will he speak of it – want to play again? And if we do, can I bear it? Can I face the emptiness and the long, silent hours? Wouldn’t it be better to forget? Keep Sam safe – keep him innocent._

 

Fingers clasped each other around the belly of the mug, warm and trembling. A small heap of crumbs lay beside his elbow. 

 

He used to sit with Bilbo in the evenings – a book between them – their eyes straying from tea to text – unravelling sentences piece by piece until late into the night, when their concentration would slacken and both would begin to yawn.

 

“Bed beckons!” Bilbo would say, standing up and patting his waistcoat with a smile. Frodo would rub his eyes and close the book, bidding his uncle good night. He would go to his bed, but his mind would not still. He would lie, restlessly shifting through the vivid images that paraded through his mind, tossing and turning until he had to press his face into his pillow to make it all stop. There was always too much to quieten and nowhere for it all to go. Often he would resort to the comfort of his own hand, a quick release and a slow breath – drawn out, shaking the darkness. Sweet, yet forbidden - the love that would find no other release. It could not – would not be expressed - except as play; a tumble in the grass, a mud fight, a rough game of chase in the roaring woods of his youth – running against the legs of another lad – pulling him to the ground – his heart pounding. 

 

Guilt raked his fingernails along his teeth, biting and pulling, until he could feel the nip of pain that sent tremors along his spine. 

 

_Sam is like a flower, so easy and willing to open under my hand. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s rolling in the grass, he’s grinning like a lad who’s smudged his nose in the ball field or risen from the river soaked to the skin. He has no idea. And afterwards, I couldn’t even look him in the eye because I didn’t want him to notice how I was trembling. I didn’t want him to see what his touch had stirred in me._

 

Frodo’s skin shivered with sensation at the remembrance of what had been the finest hour of his life. He stood up and drained his mug in the sink, honey still clinging to the bottom in a glistening pool. 

 

_The moment has passed. Now it might as well be encased in glass – for it could never be retrieved._

~~~~~

The walk up the hill seemed the longest of Sam’s life and as he lead the four hobbits through the swinging gate – he felt a shadow passing over his soul and had to stop for a moment to catch his breath and settle the agitated beating of his heart. The hour was growing late and from the smial there were no visible signs of life – only a thin trail of smoke drifted from the chimney and no lamps were lit in the hall. Sam berated himself silently, resentfully - he should have been there to clear away the snow, light the fires and cook his master’s meal, but instead he was bringing strangers to Frodo’s door. He turned and watched them walking up to the bend in the road, like a flock of ravens, bearing their burden between them as it were a sheaf of harvest wheat brought home as an offering. Their faces were grave and unreadable and they spoke only in whispers and only to each other.

 

Sam hadn’t even managed to discover their names. 

 

He walked on ahead, shovelling where the snow was deepest, hoping that he might have a moment alone to explain to Frodo why he had sent them here. He cleared the drift away from the doorstep, noting how it was untouched since the previous night, and steeled himself to knock. But as he stood at the front door, the knocker raised in his hand, he felt uncertain. 

 

Sam had trusted Mari. Mari always seemed to know the right way to go about things and a combination of her practical mind and no nonsense pig headedness had sent Sam straight back to his guests with the news that Mr Baggins of Bag End would be the best person to approach - as he had room to spare and water on tap. 

 

As the knocker fell heavily against the wood, the words seemed to echo ominously in his mind as though they were in some way a betrayal. The knocker fell for the second time and Sam could sense the sound falling dead in the quiet air of the hallway. Sam’s mind wandered empty rooms and passages – seeking his master – calling to him – panicking for a moment, wondering if Frodo had frozen in his study and could not call for him, only wait for one who had not come – senseless to all things.

 

But there came a soft muffled sound behind the door and the little round window was suddenly illuminated with light. Sam took a step back and drew in a breath. 

 

This is the first time I have looked at those lips and known the taste of them. How will I be able to look and not think of that? 

 

There was a soft click as the door was unlatched and Sam’s breath drifted out of him in a soft “o”. Frodo stood in the open doorway with an oil lamp raised in one hand. He was dressed casually in dark blue breeches and a cream shirt that seemed to have been hastily donned, for its tails flapped free of his waistband and some of the buttons were done up awry. His curls looked tangled and mussed and his eyes bleary and blinking into the darkness. 

 

“Sam?” Frodo stepped back into the hall to let Sam pass through. He looked startled as Sam strode purposefully into the smial, shaking the snow from his feet hurriedly before stepping onto the rug. “It’s late…” Frodo stammered, looking down at his hands.

 

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, sir. I know it must be getting late and you ready for bed, an’ all…” he tried not to stare at the creamy skin exposed between the folds of Frodo’s shirt and blushed as he stammered for the words he so eagerly sought. “It’s just that there’s been an accident on the Water. A lad’s injured – he fell through the ice and he’s hurt – taken a chill and scared hi’self half to death. I took him home but my da’s not well and Mari she said ‘why not ask Mr Frodo if he would take him in?’ just for the night, you understand, no longer than that and I thought…”

 

But time had run out. Frodo’s eyes drifted from Sam’s anxious face to the doorway, where four dark figures were waiting, their forms blocking out the brightness of the moon. 

 

“Oh…” Frodo’s eyes widened and he looked from Sam to the door in astonishment. 

 

Then suddenly, out of the concealing dark, one of the hobbits moved forwards onto the doorstep, where his face was illuminated. He wore a black hat and he took it from his head respectfully as he nodded before Frodo and lowered his eyes. “Sorry to disturb you on such a night as this,” he said, his voice low and lilting. 

 

Frodo stared. “Will you come in?” Frodo replied, his voice sounding thin and uncertain. “I’m afraid it’s not much warmer in here, but I’m sure Sam will soon remedy that.” Frodo turned to Sam and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder, for re-assurance it seemed to Sam, as much as affirmation. 

 

Sam nodded and gave Frodo a warm smile, delighting in the brief, sweet touch that made Sam’s head swim with a flood of beautiful memory. 

 

“Please – do come in,” Frodo urged, stepping back to allow room for the strangers to enter. They looked uncomfortable as they stood upon the hall rug and unclasped their cloaks, exchanging furtive glances. 

 

“Where shall we lay him down?” the hobbit replied as they carried the patient into the passage, now cosily lit with lamps burning brightly from their sconces. He looked older than the other three - his body broader and his face showing signs of age in the creases around his eyes and mouth but still he retained a fierce beauty, which was echoed in the faces of his companions. 

 

“I think the parlour would be best,” Frodo said, guiding them along the passage, “and I’ll ask Sam to make up a bed in one of the guest rooms. The couch is comfortable and there’s a small fire – it only needs a little kindling. I’ll fetch blankets and pillows – bring him through.” 

 

They followed Frodo into the parlour and Sam watched for a moment from the doorway as they laid the lad down on the couch and covered him with a cloak. Then he turned and hurried away down the passage to fetch the wood, anxious to be as quick as he possibly could – he didn’t want to leave Frodo alone for longer than was needful. 

 

“Sam?” 

Sam straightened up, a load of firewood slipping in his arms. “Yes, Mr Frodo?” he said, alarmed and all at once alert at the sight of Frodo’s eyes wide with concern.

 

“Will you run for the healer? I know it’s late, but the lad seems to be delirious and he has no warmth in his skin.”

 

Sam dropped the wood back into the basket and began to fasten his cloak. “Perhaps I should ‘a let him be, the cold can’t have helped, I’m sure…”

 

“Don’t Sam – you’ve done a fine job bringing him here. Just hurry … please.” Frodo looked pale and drawn and Sam felt such a rush of love that he had to restrain himself from taking Frodo into his arms then and there and gentling him with kisses. 

 

He turned back at the entrance to the hall. “You’ll be all right, Mr Frodo?” he said, reluctant to leave.

 

“Of course, Sam. Be as quick as you can.”

 

Sam nodded and smiled briefly, despite his fears. “I will, Sir. I shan’t be long!” 

 

Frodo returned the smile and then bent to the retrieve the firewood from the basket, stacking it into his arms so high he had to rest his chin on the top of it to keep it steady. Sam watched for a moment in admiration before dashing off down the passage and out of the front door, bracing his body against the icy blast as the night enveloped him and shut out the warmth of the smial.

~~~~~~

Frodo entered the parlour feeling uneasy. The strangers seemed to fill the small parlour, looking about themselves at the fine paintings on the walls and the little collection of mathoms that sat upon the mantel piece and along the numerous bookshelves, keeping company with finely bound volumes of poetry. They were talking together, two hobbits who looked close as twins and an older one – their voices quick and soft and difficult to discern despite the quietness of the smial.

 

Frodo carried the wood over to the fire and piled it on top, noting how the voices had hushed and settled to soft noises of agreement as he rose and dusted off his hands on the seat of his breeches.

 

“May I introduce myself?” Frodo said, offering his hand as a way of breaking the ice. 

 

“Frodo Baggins, ain’t it?” The older man took the proffered hand and clasped it within his own great palms, Frodo’s fine bones cracking a little in the fierce grip. 

 

“That’s right,” Frodo said, wincing slightly. The hobbit didn’t seem to be in any hurry   
to let him go. “And you?” Frodo probed. 

 

The hobbit looked back at his companions who were still lingering beside the bookshelves, trailing curious fingers along the gilt bindings. They smiled crookedly, baring uneven teeth. 

 

“Our name is Yarrow. I’m Kern – that there’s Sol and Carr and him over there,” he nodded towards the huddled figure on the couch, “that there is Asher.” 

 

Frodo turned and looked down at the lad, whose face he had not yet managed to discern, entangled as it was with blankets and straggling locks of ink black hair. He lay so still – surely it couldn’t be right that he should be so still? Frodo crouched down beside the couch and searched for the face yet veiled from view. He raised a hand to stroke away the web of dark hair. 

 

“Don’t touch ‘im.” 

 

Frodo looked up in surprise, his hand still slightly raised. 

 

The older hobbit shook his head slowly, his dark eyes twinkling. Sol and Carr laughed under their breath and moved closer to the fireside, drawn in by the warmth. Frodo moved away, shivering a little despite the blazing fire. Individually these hobbits would be dangerous enough, but as a group they were formidable. Kern turned to the corner table and eyed the decanter set upon it – filled with a dark plum brandy. 

 

“Would you like a drink?” Frodo asked, nervous and yet deeply intrigued, watching every move they made, wondering if he might come a little closer, find out a little more.

 

“Aye – that would be most pleasant, thank you Mr Baggins,” Kern replied, with a mirthless smile upon his face, watching Frodo’s back as he bent to retrieve the glasses from the cupboard beneath. 

 

“I’m sorry, I should have offered. I’m afraid I’ve not been the proper host this evening, you’ve caught me rather off guard, you see and of course, I’ve been concerned about your friend – ”

 

“Brother.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Frodo stammered, feeling foolish as the glasses clinked together in his trembling hands.

 

“He’s our brother,” Kern replied. 

 

Frodo poured the dark sweet liquid into four glasses. “Are you all brothers?” he inquired, balancing the glasses in his hands and carrying them across to the hearthside.

 

“You’re a very curious fellow, Mr Baggins.” Kern took a glass and downed the contents in one gulp. 

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…” 

 

Sol and Carr took theirs silently, smirking and looking him up and down in such a way that Frodo began to feel uncomfortable. 

 

“You may pry – you may pry. It’s our good fortune we found you and your …who is that fellow?”

 

“Sam?”

 

“Aye – Samwise – is he your?…”

 

“Gardener,” Frodo said, whilst sipping at the burning brandy.

 

“Gardener.” Kern agreed, holding out his glass. Frodo took it and refilled it once more. “Many thanks.” Kern swigged it back and sighed heavily. “Ahhh! That’s better,” he said. “More than ready to face what may meet us on the road – there are strange things on the byways these days, Mr Baggins. You have to be prepared – prepared for the worst.”

 

“You’re leaving?” Frodo said, in surprise and alarm. “But you can’t move him – not with him like this! I’ve sent for the healer, she’ll be here any minute, surely you can wait a little longer?”

 

“Time and tide waits for no-one,” he said, clapping his great hands together and fixing Frodo with a sharp black eye. “He’s in your charge. I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Remember that? Aye – I’m trusting you.”

 

Frodo shook his head. “He can’t stay here.”

 

Kern raised a heavy dark brow. “We’ll be back in two weeks time with the wagons.”

 

“Where are you going?” Frodo asked, anxiety creasing his brow and bringing his nails up to his mouth. 

 

Kern walked up to him, shadowing him with his great height and pulled Frodo’s hand slowly down within his own, which was warm and steady and strong, where Frodo’s felt cold and weak. “A nasty habit,” Kern said quietly, shaking his head. 

 

Frodo took a step backwards and waited for them to leave, his heart thudding in his ears. 

 

“We will be passing through, Mr Baggins, straight as the crow flies. We’ll take ‘im then.”

 

“I will take care of him.” Frodo resolved, trying to hold onto his dignity, even as his knees weakened with fear. 

 

“You will.” Kern agreed, winking at his brothers to follow. “We’ll be seeing you ‘fore Yule – ‘til then - good health to you, sir!”

 

Frodo nodded his head, his feet rooted to the spot as he watched the three brothers walking out of the room, noting as they went everything that shone or glistened gold or silver in the firelight. When he heard the soft click of the latch, Frodo collapsed onto the rug beside the couch, trembling and holding his head in his hands. 

 

Eventually he gathered himself enough to recall the other who remained, breathing so softly he hardly seemed present. Frodo regarded him with exhausted half- shuttered eyes, laying his head upon the couch and raising his hand, watching it move lazily as if of its own volition. Touching the hot skin he flinched a little but allowed his fingers to gently pull the blanket away from the lad’s face and peel back the thick curtain of curling hair. Frodo’s fingers froze and the breath stopped dead in his throat, closing it in a soft choke. The hobbit that lay before him was as beautiful as an elf. The firelight playing over the strong jaw, the high curving cheekbones and delicate almond shaped eyes - embroidered with gold, skin that would shine brown beneath the sun. Frodo’s hand trembled and he tried to draw away but found himself entranced and unable to move. Fascinated and appalled with himself, he passed light fingers over the soft cheek and felt his heart lurching with excitement. He looked young, just out of his tweens, it appeared, and yet there was a mysteriousness that enveloped him – a presence such as pervades a place of great antiquity. 

 

_This is some kind of sign,_ Frodo thought to himself, his hand straying to stroke back the wild curls. _This is the way I must go – my destiny has fallen at my feet._ Even as the words fell into his mind, his heart protested, yearning for the warmth and security of his beloved Sam. 

 

“I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Aye – remember that. I’m trusting you.” 

 

But could he trust himself?


	4. Breaking Glass

The parlour glowed the colour of old honey, crystallised in the jar and a thick, sweet warmth, curled around his cold body and drew him in. 

 

Frodo lay on the carpet beside the couch, his eyes heavy lidded with sleep, one hand resting on the patterns of diamonds and flowers and the other curved around the shadow of the hobbit that lay beside him, his head now thrown back against the arm of the couch. Dark hair hung across chestnut, light over darkness, white skin cradling the echo of brown. 

 

No other soul was in the room, only the life in the fire and the leaping candle’s flame. The silence was so pronounced; it seemed to Sam that if he were to enter he would first have to break through glass. Slowly, Frodo lifted his head and looked at Sam with a clear blue gaze that seemed to pass right through him and out of the window beyond. Sam felt a sudden lurch of fear.

 

“Mr Frodo, where are the others?” he asked, his throat tight.

 

Frodo clambered to his feet and seemed to visibly shake himself awake. “They’ve gone, Sam. I don’t know where – they left him behind, with me…”

 

“When are they coming back?” Sam asked, alarm twisting his hands into fists.

 

“Before Yule, two weeks, perhaps.”

 

“Two weeks! And you’re left to – to care for him alone?” 

 

“Well, so it would seem.” Frodo sounded a little terse and his fingers rippled through his hair and straightened his shirt cuffs abstractedly.

 

Sam frowned, his master seemed ill at ease and Sam was desperate for a moment alone with him, he had been longing for it all day and now the hour was growing late he was beginning to feel the precious time slipping through his hands. He looked behind him at the open doorway and heard the rustlings in the hallway where the healer was warming her feet. 

 

“Mr Frodo…” he began, laying a hand briefly upon Frodo’s arm. Frodo looked up at Sam in surprise. Sam stopped, took a breath and then stepped backwards, his body trembling. “Shall I put the kettle on?” he said, softly, reigning back tears of frustration.

 

“I think that would be useful,” Frodo replied, looking down at his creased shirtfront. Then he raised his eyes once more to catch Sam within a gaze so stormy and dark, it nearly made Sam choke and he would have touched Frodo again, if he hadn’t already withdrawn to such a great distance. 

 

“Is the patient within, Mr Baggins?” 

 

The healer stepped over the threshold and, instantly, they both drew apart as surely as if a chasm had opened up between them and left them stranded.

~ ~ ~

Sam was stirring dried flowers of camomile into a pot of hot water, breathing in the bitter steam as he curled the spoon around the base of the big brown pot, creating little vortices and ripples, allowing the infusion to strengthen.

 

Camomile would ease his sleep, as the sage bath would relax his muscles and the soft linens soothe his tender skin. His master’s best, from the oak chest in his master’s room, lavender scented and soft as eiderdown. They had slipped the clean, cream brushed cotton over his head as they held him between them, such a slight weight, despite his height. He had been awake, his eyes flashed over Frodo’s face carelessly, but he hadn’t troubled to speak. The healer had prescribed camomile to ease his sleep and she had laid him in the guest bed, all newly made with white sheets as crisp as the snow that lay sparkling on the window ledge. The fire was banked to last the night and a lamp was set close against the bed so that he wouldn’t take fear if he woke with fever. Frodo had listened carefully to every word, nodding in understanding. The healer would stay overnight in the little room across the hall where Mr Pippin slept whenever he came to stay. It was so small that Pippin could walk his legs up and down the opposite wall if he stretched himself across the tiny bed, which was more like a cradle than ought and spread with a patchwork quilt of green and gold. She would be there in case of serious alarm, otherwise, she said, she’d be glad of a good night’s rest. 

 

Frodo was with him now. He said he would be happier to stay, disregarding the healer’s insistence that the patient would be well enough without such attentions. But Frodo was firm and no one argues with Mr Frodo when he has his mind set on a thing, so she had backed out of the room, muttering to herself and shaking her head, resigned that the gentlefolk would do as they would, foolish or no. Frodo had drawn a chair close against the bedside and sat down with a book, reading by the poor lamplight and Sam had been left with no choice but to turn and leave the room. 

 

Somehow it seemed that amidst the confusion of the day, they had lost sight of one another and had become estranged. 

 

“Is it done?”

 

Sam turned, startled at the sudden rent in his thoughts. The healer stood in the doorway, eyeing Sam with bright, curious eyes.

 

“Nearly,” Sam replied, putting the lid on the pot and warming his hands upon it.

 

“That’s good,” she said. “He’ll be less trouble to your Mr Frodo if he’s asleep.”

 

Sam’s eyes snapped open and he turned to the old hobbit easing herself down into a chair. “What do you mean?” he said. 

 

“Only that trouble follows trouble. Foolish acts lead to foolish acts. It would be better for your master if the stranger rests and leaves with the sunrise.”

 

“Will he be well?” Sam asked, surprised.

 

“Well enough – he’s just taken chill. The brew I gave him will take care of that and the sleep will settle his fears, no doubt he will be good enough for the road.”

 

Sam began to pour a cup of tea and then, after a moments hesitation, laid out two more cups and filled them also, the ochre liquor as it passed, steaming into the thick green mugs, made his head swim unpleasantly. When they were full he passed a cup to the healer and set the other two on a tray to take into the guestroom. She thanked him and blew on it, veiling her face in steam.

 

“But what if he means to stay?” Sam said slowly, watching the steam wreathing around her head like a coil of rope. “Mr Frodo mentioned two weeks – his brothers have left without him.”

 

“Then you must be vigilant, Samwise - be cautious, be attentive – draw him away if he moves too close. They’re an old family, Samwise, and they’ve moved over many lands and learned many tricks along the way. They are charmed but perilous all the same. Never trust ‘em, Samwise.”

 

“I don’t much care for that kind of talk,” Sam said sternly. “I’ve met many the same and they’ve been solid enough and never stolen naught nor cut me short. Besides, they could play music like I’ve never heard since – wonderful, it was!” 

 

She sipped at her tea and laughed low in her throat. “Oh yes, their music can charm the birds from the trees, sure enough.”

 

“Mr Frodo ain’t no fool, he’ll see through any funny business. Meanwhile, I’ll help take care of him and ask around for the others - they can’t have gone far. I’ll tell them he’s well enough and ready to take the road.”

 

“If you say so,” she said, her eyes twinkling above the rim of her mug. 

 

“I’ll just carry this through – I’ll bid you goodnight,” he said, nodding his head and taking the tray in his heads with a firmness that brooked no more arguments. The healer put down her mug and rose to her feet.

 

“Aye, aye – I’ll be off – goodnight young Samwise, I’ll be gone in the morn if all’s well.”

 

Sam was just about to leave the room when there was a sharp, hurried tapping at the back door. 

 

“Who can this be at this time of night?” Sam put down the tray once more and unlatched the back door, letting in the cold blast of the winter’s night. “Daisy – is that you?”

 

“Aye – let me in, Sam!” 

 

Sam held wide the door and Daisy entered the room, moving close against the stove, nodding at the healer in respectful silence and shivering in her wet woollen cloak. Her brown curls were decorated with snowflakes and her hands were red, where they clasped her cloak at the neck. 

 

Sam closed the door and stood before her, his face serious and set, knowing where his duty lay even before the words passed his lips. “It’s dad?”

 

Daisy nodded, sniffing. “Aye, he’s worsening, Sam. Mari and me well, we didn’t know what to do for him and we thought the healer might be up here with that poor lad and we hoped you’d come!”

 

“You keep warm, Daisy, you look half frozen. I’ll go and talk with Mr Frodo.”

 

Sam took up the tray and left the room, a hardness settling like ice within his heart, shielding him from the pain of loss.

~ ~ ~

Frodo hadn’t moved for over an hour. Sitting in the flickering lamplight his eyes skimmed lines of blank verse, rendered utterly meaningless by twenty readings, familiar words fragmenting into nonsense.

 

Asher lay in the bed beside him, curled beneath the sheets like a comma, his black hair spread upon the pillow, a darkly rolling wave, and yet Frodo wasn’t certain if he was truly sleeping, for as Frodo sat and tried to read, he was aware of sense of scrutiny. In the echoing quiet, even his most intimate thoughts seemed exposed and his eyes would flicker fitfully to the young hobbit again and again, hoping to catch those other eyes alert and staring, but always, there was the semblance of sleep and soft dreaming and no reason to believe otherwise. A soft rain broke against the window and the fire sizzled and flared in the draught from the chimney. Frodo shivered and shuffled down in his chair, wondering what was taking Sam so long with the tea. 

 

It was with relief that he saw the shadows lengthening on the wall and the hall light seeping over the floor, reaching his feet. He lifted his head and let out a heavy sigh as Sam pushed quietly into the room, a tray balanced in his hands, backing in with careful tread, trying not to make too much noise. Frodo nodded to the chest of drawers and Sam settled the tray on top, peering at the patient as he took up two mugs, one in each hand and indicated the sleeper with a nod of his head. Frodo shook his head and stood up, relieving Sam of one of the mugs and whispering for Sam to place the other close beside the bed. 

 

Sam’s solid presence seemed at once to dissipate the strange atmosphere that had been building in the room like a bank of cloud. Frodo felt relieved and put out a grateful hand, squeezing Sam’s shoulder gently and affectionately. Sam seemed to draw a deep, strengthening breath and when he exhaled Frodo could feel it trickling warmly past his ear, making him want to catch it quickly within his own mouth – comforting and reviving. Such a kiss would dispel any half-formed desires that may have been awakened in the hours between their last meeting. Forgetting himself, he raised a hand and gently rippled his fingers through the curls that hung heavy at the nape of Sam’s neck, provoking soft shudders. 

 

“Mr Frodo…” Sam sounded uncertain, so Frodo stepped back and let his hand fall, seeing at once the heaviness in Sam’s limbs and the sorrow in his eyes. 

 

“What is it?” Frodo asked and the fear flared within him as he faced the prospect of a withdrawal. 

 

“I have to go home, sir.” Sam’s voice was flat and toneless and Frodo’s heart lurched at the loss of the warmth he craved. 

 

“Oh, of course…” Frodo began, looking down at the pool of light on the floor, “It’s late, I’ve kept you long enough.”

 

Sam spoke hurriedly, “It’s dad, he’s been took bad and Daisy’s been up to fetch me home.”

 

“Then you must go, Sam.”

 

Sam paused for a moment as if searching for words, his feet shuffling restlessly on the carpet. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and unsteady, “I’m sorry I missed the five o’clock. I wanted to come…”

 

“It’s all right.” Frodo spoke quickly, a dismissal. 

 

“I would’ve come…”

 

“I understand,” Frodo held open the door. “You need to take care of your family, I’ll be fine. You get off home, Sam. But please make time to rest, you look tired.”

 

Sam stood on the threshold. He looked up at Frodo with unspoken questions still unanswered in his wide, hazel eyes. 

 

“Goodnight then, sir,” he said, unable to move, his feet seemingly rooted to the floorboards. 

 

“Goodnight, Sam.”

 

Frodo watched Sam thoughtfully, wondering how many excuses he had been practising and how many had been rejected before this one arose. Sam was sorry for it, that much was clear, but the unease was obvious even as he nodded his final, hesitant farewell and turned down the passage, flaring in and out of the lamplight, until he was absorbed into the deep well of shadow that lay beyond the kitchen door. When Sam’s footsteps finally died away, Frodo closed the door and turned back into the fire lit room, resigned to his future, feeling the vastness of it opening up before him as he sat down once more beside the bed. 

 

As he settled himself once more to read, he felt again the flickering unease and his heartbeat caught up the erratic rhythm, shortening his breath and breaking his concentration. He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head as a great heavy wave of exhaustion washed over him. Reaching over to grasp the abandoned mug of tea, he glanced towards the bed and saw, with a leap of alarm, that he was being watched. 

 

Black eyes, as black as pools of ink and alive with inquisitiveness and brilliance, tiny flames breaking and dividing inside the swelling circle of each wide pupil, hypnotising, dark lashes framing slanting lids half parted, drowsy and heavy. 

 

Frodo was caught and captured, mouth startled in a gasp, his hand upon the warm curve of the mug, hovering, slipping on air. 

 

“Hello,” Asher spoke softly; pushing a lock of dark hair behind one sharply pointed ear.

 

Frodo stared blankly for a moment, recovering his wits, untangling his tongue. He looked at the mug that sat half captured. “Would you like a drink?” he said, offering it.

 

Shifting in the bed, the stranger dragged himself half upright, shoving a pillow behind his back and coughing hoarsely into his hand. Frodo passed the mug over carefully, feeling cool fingers brushing for a moment against his own. Asher nodded and smiled briefly, still watching Frodo from beneath long lashes as he took long thirsty sips. When he had drained the mug, he passed it back and Frodo took it and held it in his hands. 

 

“Thank you, Frodo,” he said, wiping his long, curving mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Frodo was a little startled at the mention of his name, but said nothing about it – sitting down on the chair, unable to drag his eyes away from the dark thrall of the hobbit’s face. Intrigued and afraid, he watched as the other regarded him with open curiosity. 

 

“You live alone?” Asher said, looking around the shadowed room. 

 

“Yes,” Frodo replied, running his fingers along the ridges of the mug he still cradled. 

 

Suddenly caught up in a paroxysm of coughing, Asher bent forwards and the quiet solemnity was broken and overtaken by more mundane concerns. Frodo rose and made to wake the healer –alarmed at the ferocity of the attack. But Asher held out a hand and Frodo stopped in the middle of the room, frozen and undecided. 

 

“It’s all right – don’t call her,” he whispered, between breaths. 

 

“You’re not well,” Frodo replied, feeling the weight of responsibility settling once more on his shoulders and half hoping for respite. But the young hobbit was shaking his head and beckoning him back. “You’re certain?” Frodo asked. 

 

“Yes – come back.”

 

“Is there anything you need?” 

 

Asher shook his head and fought for breath. After a moment he spoke, in quite a different voice, soft as a young fauntling. “Have they gone?” he said. 

 

“Your brothers left – they said they would come back for you,” Frodo replied.

 

Asher seemed to accept the situation and relaxed once more against the pillows. “So it’s you and me, then?” he said, quirking a brow. 

 

Frodo smiled and sat down on the chair, fiddling with the lamp to distract himself from the awkwardness he felt. How could he share his home with a stranger? One who seemed to hold the key to so many secret longings and to so much that made him feel afraid? 

 

Asher coughed once more. “And one other – who has gone?”

 

Frodo’s heart dipped. “Sam,” he said. 

 

“Sam…” Asher replied, his lilting voice curling the name around his tongue musically. 

 

There was a moment’s silence and then Asher leaned over and looked down at the books on the floor. “Shall we tell tales?” he said, catching Frodo’s eye.

 

“Do you like to read?” Frodo asked, his curiosity sparking.

 

“From my mind,” Asher replied, tapping his temple lightly. 

 

“From memory?”

 

“We find little use for books.”

 

“Then you’re a true storyteller,” Frodo said, eagerly, “Such as my uncle. He loved his books but he relished the telling of a tale by heart more than anything, the weaving of words from his own imagination was better than any book upon a library shelf!”

 

Asher smiled and he looked at once younger and softer. “He held a captive audience?”

 

“He did - they would hang on his every word!”

 

“A true storyteller!” Asher said, admiringly. 

 

“Yes – he was…” 

 

“You miss him.”

 

“Yes, I do. He was a wonderful hobbit.” 

 

Frodo felt his soul yearning to be opened, delighting in the opportunity to share in the memories that he treasured, sudden joy overwhelming his trepidation. 

 

“I have heard tell of him,” Asher said.

 

“You have heard of my uncle?” 

 

“Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. Not much misses our ears – news flows through Bree as swift as the tides.”

 

“You come from Bree?” Frodo sat forward with interest, feeling a thrill at the possibility that he might gain news of Bilbo. 

 

“We have a settlement there – we travel through the festivals but always return to the Greenway. All of Middle-earth can be heard along the old road, if you put your ear to the ground and listen.”

 

“And you saw him? You saw Bilbo?” Frodo asked, his eyes luminous.

 

Asher smiled as he watched Frodo, a fond expression of baffled pleasure on his face. “We did, briefly.”

 

“Was he well?” 

 

“Well enough.”

 

“Did he speak to you? Did he tell you where he was going?” Frodo asked, heedless of the need for restraint, with the relief of hearing that Bilbo had been seen. 

 

“He passed through quietly, heading for the woods of the world. He told no stories.”

 

“He was alone?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There were no elves?”

 

“Elves don’t come close to Bree, Frodo.”

 

Frodo was silent a moment, feeling the weight of ignorance settling upon him. “But he was in no danger?” he said.

 

“We are all in danger.”

 

“Bilbo…”

 

“None was on his heels, we saw only one shadow as he slipped along the road.”

 

Frodo took a shaky breath and tried to calm his breathing. 

 

“Don’t fear for your kin, Frodo. He’s a bold adventurer, isn’t he?” 

 

“He was once, a long time ago.”

 

“He returned home with great treasures and his name remembered in tales.”

 

“Yes, but he is old now and he travels alone.”

 

“There are those that will guide him home. The old paths are not unguarded yet, the borders are protected.”

 

“But you said there was danger – that we are all in danger?” Frodo said, urgently, staring hard into fierce eyes.

 

Asher sighed and closed his eyes as if unable to withstand the burning questions that flared in Frodo’s gaze. 

 

“I’m sorry – I’m tiring you. I will leave you to sleep,” Frodo said. 

 

“You don’t have to go,” Asher said, holding out a hand and grasping his shirtsleeve as Frodo bent to pick up the pile of books that lay on the floor.

 

Frodo looked at the slender brown hand and spoke softly, “You should sleep.”

 

Asher sighed and collapsed back against the pillows, his face showing signs of strain as he coughed deep in his throat. “You’ll come and talk with me tomorrow?” he asked, his eyes flickering open once more. 

 

“Yes,” Frodo replied. “Call out if you need anything in the night.”

 

Asher nodded and closed his eyes and Frodo turned down the lamp so that it burned with a low orange glow. Then he turned and stepped slowly towards the door.

 

“Sam – is he your lover?”

 

The voice startled Frodo and his body shook so violently that the books nearly slid from his arms. Taking a deep unsteady breath, he faced the tunnel of the lamplit passage. 

 

“No,” he said and left the room, leaving the door ajar.


	5. Conjuring

_Frodo knew he was dreaming even as he lay, supported by a wave of ecstasy that tore a sound from his throat. His body tense and quivering, he rode out the tearing pleasure until he could not hold himself any longer and fell down, plummeting to his starched white sheets, his hands still clutching, grasping at fragments of sweetness, already fading to dull throbbing heartbeats._

_He tried to wake, to pull himself out of the cavern of wanting that had opened up before him – the hunger that had brought him to the edge of weeping. He felt the coldness of the pillow, the emptiness of the wide oak bed and the bedroom half full of his own belongings, which couldn’t fill the spaces between. He would never fill it – he wasn’t meant to – it wasn’t his inheritance, couldn’t be – Bilbo had made a mistake. Frodo shivered and burrowed into the covers, already forgetting the bliss of his dreams as he wrapped himself in his own cold arms._

_Soon Sam would come. Sam would see that he was well - ask if there was anything he needed. Sam would come and fill the room with his warmth and his kindness._

_But no – not today. Sam would not come today. Sam would be at Number Three, with the Gaffer. Frodo would have to manage alone. He would have to get up and get on with the day, stepping out into the cold hall where no fires had been lit – go to the kitchen, light up the stove, make breakfast for his guests…_

 

The smial was filled with a deep silence, deeper than usual, one that signified that there were those that were still dreaming in their beds. Frodo padded down the hall and lit the lanterns along the way, for the morning had not yet brought the light, only the first bright chirpings of the blackbird in the apple tree. The kitchen was cold and empty and Frodo’s heart lurched to see it looking so sad. He fumbled with the stove and lit it three times, blowing on the smoke to catch the sticks alight. When at last the flames were snapping and leaping high into the chimney, he closed the door tightly   
and filled the kettle for tea. Each sound of water or metal resonating in the early quiet. 

 

When the water was hissing in the kettle, he took a cloth and lifted it from the hook, filling the large brown teapot with water, watching the dance of the spinning leaves as the warm steam bathed his cold cheeks. Laying the table with what he could find in the pantry, he ate without enthusiasm, chewing slowly, and swallowing with difficulty around the great knot in his belly. 

 

_Soon he must go and look, soon…_

 

“Good morning, Mr Baggins.” 

 

Frodo looked up from his half-chewed toast as the old hobbit shuffled into the room, rubbing her hands together and huffing on them. 

 

“Good morning, sister,” he said, getting up. 

 

“You keep a cold hole here, if you don’t mind me saying so,” she said as she moved over to the warm stove and stood for a moment with her back towards him.

 

“Would you like some breakfast?” Frodo asked, polite despite the sting of her words. 

 

She turned round and looked at the cold provisions that lay scattered about the cloth. “No, thank you kindly – I’ll just take tea – then I’ll be on my way.”

 

Frodo poured her a cup of tea and she looked approvingly at the delicate thing as she drank the hot liquid down in two gulps. “Thank you,” she said and put the cup down on the table, settling it carefully on its saucer. 

 

“Won’t you sit down?” Frodo urged, feeling strangely as if he wanted to keep her here. 

 

“No thank you, I’ll be going now,” she replied, throwing on the thick woollen cloak that had been spread across the back of a kitchen chair to dry. 

 

“Would you like me to…? ” Frodo began, his heart leaping and racing. 

 

“No thank you, Mr Baggins, the snow’s all melted away in the night and I’m well enough on my feet. You stay in the warm and keep him out of that river.” She grinned fleetingly, looking for a moment like an old wolf, her grey hair hanging about her face like a grizzled coat. 

 

“Have you seen him this morning – is he well?” Frodo asked quickly, in a slightly breathless rush. 

 

“Aye – he’s better. The fever’s gone and he’s sleeping sound. Let him rest, don’t you go troubling yourself, Mr Baggins,” she said, looking at him keenly with her needle sharp gaze. 

 

Frodo rose to his feet and unlatched the back door. The morning sun was just creeping over the side of the hill and the garden was illuminated with a soft, shadowy haze - patches of white snow still lying on the ground glowed ethereally in the half-light. The Healer nodded her farewells and walked out into the cold, wet garden. Frodo watched her following the stone path down to the orchard gate, her hunched figure startling the blackbird from its tree, sending it shrieking and flapping over the hill. 

 

When she had disappeared from sight, he was still standing, breathing in the cool, sweet air, thinking how early mornings always sang to him of the possibility of new beginnings – of departures and arrivals and the lure of the new day, full of possibilities.

~~~

It wasn’t what he had expected. Stealing softly into the bedroom, with his heart thudding in his ears, Frodo had discovered his guest sitting upright on the bed staring out of the open window, his face as still and expressionless as stone. Still wearing Frodo’s night-shirt, his long legs were curled beneath him and the outline of his body was stark against the pale linen.

 

Watching, Frodo was as absorbed by the sight of Asher as the stranger was by the view from Bag End’s windows and they both remained silent for a moment, listening to the cries of the milk herders and low complaints of the cattle as they were ushered in from the fields. A soft, cold breeze wandering through the room filled the empty corners with pockets of icy air and drowsily wove its fingers through Frodo’s hair.

 

“Can you see the White Downs from here on a good day?” Asher turned and looked at Frodo where he stood silently waiting. 

 

Frodo jumped in surprise, it seemed the young hobbit could sense him even when he was careful not to make a sound. Frodo nodded, “On a good day, yes. Sometimes I imagine I can hear the sea.”

 

Asher looked at him with interest in his dark, slanting eyes. “I hear it always, Frodo. I carry it with me.”

 

Frodo shivered and looked at the dead hearth. “Shall I light a fire?”

 

Asher shrugged and took a deep breath as if he were trying to inhale the distant landscape. “I want to get up,” he said. “Can I bathe?”

 

“Of course, there’s plenty of water,” Frodo replied.

 

Stretching, lifting his arms high as he stood upright Asher looked down at the fine embroidered nightshirt he wore and ran his hands along the stitching down the front, “This is a beautiful thing,” he said. 

 

“It belonged to my father. I don’t remember him ever wearing it,” Frodo said, “but then I don’t remember much about him at all, really, so that’s not surprising,” he added, looking at his feet. 

 

“He’s been gone a long time?” Asher asked, walking up to Frodo, seeking his eyes. 

 

“Many years – my parents died when I was a child,” Frodo said, softly. 

 

As he spoke, Frodo felt the other hobbit’s physical presence deep under his skin. His   
daring, his youth and beauty, he sensed as keenly as he might the presence of a fox in the woods, and he trembled to find him standing so close. 

 

Frodo turned. “I will fill the bath,” he said hurriedly and strode from the room and down the passage before another word could be spilled.

~~~

Looking in his linen chest, Frodo pulled out the largest shirt he could find, a deep indigo blue silk with ivory buttons. He couldn’t think whom it had belonged to, but it was a quality piece and hardly worn. He laid it out upon the bed and straightened it. Then he found a pair of breeches that Merry sometimes borrowed, since he had grown to be such a willowy creature, and he laid them down beside the shirt. He wondered how Asher would look in the deep, rich colours – his hair stark against the brilliant blue. Dreaming again, ridiculous things. Such fevered things… Frodo stood back and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked pale and tired, his eyes standing out from his face, wide and luminous – moonstruck.

~~~

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked slowly with its deep, throbbing beat, weighted drops of time falling and passing, again and again until they faded out of conscious thought. Frodo sat at his desk and rifled through papers, a cup of tea and a stale cake beside his elbow, a frown furrowing his brow. In a comfortable chair, set close against the study fire, sat Asher, his legs sprawled across the hearthrug, engrossed in a huge volume of second age poetry that he had slipped off the bookshelf, fascinated by the bright gilt patterns on the binding. There were many illustrations within and he pondered them with deep interest, drawing his fingers across the soft wash of the ink and watercolour paint. Frodo was alarmed at first to see him touch the forbidden pages that he had once been warned from marking, but being curious, he had let it go and surrendered the precious thing into Asher’s long, slender hands. Asher held it carefully and reverently, delighting in it like a child.

 

Asher had insisted on joining him in the study and promised to remain quiet whilst Frodo got on with his work, spending his day as he usually would, with no interruptions. But Frodo had soon grown restless and, with the constant presence of muffled bouts of coughing and half choked exclamations from the other hobbit, the temptation to talk was so great that the silence in the room swiftly grew oppressive. Too often this had happened of late, Frodo had been careless with his work and his responsibilities, hoping for a chance to escape them. Letters lay unopened; others were piled up unanswered. Maps heaped up on top of deeds, money books on top of transcripts. Frodo put down his pen. Usually, he would be awaiting Sam at this time of day, longing for his company and his conversation – breaking open the tedium of the afternoon and making the evening bearable. But he would not come today - perhaps he might never come again. 

 

Asher closed the book with a heavy thump and Frodo looked up. Standing and stretching, Asher began to walk about the room. His clothes fitted him well, although the breeches were a little short. Frodo had been right about the colour – his skin shone the colour of hazelnuts in the autumn and his hair was deep black but held within it a sheen of blue and green, like a peacock’s feathers, as it glimmered in the firelight. 

 

“Is there anything you’d like?” Frodo asked, watching him take a curling translucent shell from the mantelpiece and hold it against his ear. 

 

Asher turned to him and smiled, “I’d like a drink,” he said, “not tea – something else.” Frodo rose from his seat. “And I’d like to talk – with you,” he continued. “I’d like to talk with you and drink with you.”

~~~

Frodo poured the wine into crystal glasses – damson dark – sweet and bitter, he carried them over to the sofa where Asher was sitting, his knees drawn up beneath his chin. He took the glass and thanked him.

 

“I’ve never sat in such a beautiful room surrounded by so many beautiful things,” Asher said, taking a sip of wine. 

 

“You’ve never seen Brandy Hall,” Frodo said, laughing under his breath, as he sat down beside him at the furthest end of the sofa, curled up against the arm, feeling strangely relaxed. 

 

“I’ve seen it – never been inside – always wanted to take a look and see. I was in the stable yard once and I walked all the way round the outside, peering over windowsills, but I was too short to see much at the time and my brothers called me away – they didn’t want me to get caught looking at things I had no right to. I’ve always looked where I shouldn’t…” Asher looked at Frodo openly, wantonly, straight in the eye. “I’m drawn to beautiful things, I can’t help myself.”

 

“They worry about you,” Frodo stated, remembering how possessive they had been, closing in around their youngest kin, shielding and threatening. 

 

Asher sighed and tossed back his head, revealing the sculptured column of his long throat. “They suffocate me – I’m glad to lose them for a while.”

 

“You’re lucky to have family who care about you,” Frodo replied. 

 

Asher sat up a little, “Forgive me, Frodo, I wasn’t thinking. I never think.”

 

“I’m just a bit tired, I’m sorry.” Frodo took a drink and then another, drowning the shame of his loneliness.

 

“You’re not tired, you just need some company, you’ve been shut up here too long,” Asher said, moving closer to Frodo. “I saw it the first time I looked into your eyes. You’re like me, Frodo.”

 

“How am I like you?” Frodo said, his heart skipping a beat.

 

“You’re different from other people – you see deeper – you feel harder…you’re an outsider – just like me.” Asher touched Frodo’s shoulder gently and Frodo looked up into an earnest face that seemed to reflect his own. “You don’t belong.”

 

“Why do you think that?” Frodo said, laughing it off, throwing Asher’s hand off his shoulder as he rose and tended to the fire. 

 

Asher laughed too – louder and clearer – a sound like music. “Would you like to see a trick?”

 

“A trick?” Frodo threw another log onto the fire in a shower of sparks. “I’m not sure I trust you,” he said. 

 

“Haven’t I always told you the truth?” Asher said, teasing, his eyes wide and innocent. Frodo wondered once more exactly how old he was, for he suddenly looked ridiculously young, biting his lip and playing with his feet. 

 

“Very well, then,” Frodo agreed, sitting down cross-legged on the rug.

 

“Do you have playing cards? You must – a gentlehobbit like you always keeps a pack,” Asher stated, gazing around the room. 

 

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” Frodo sighed getting up and rifling through the drawers of the bureau. “Here we are!” he cried triumphantly, putting his hand on a pack and bringing it back to the fireside. 

 

“May I?” Asher reached out his hand; palm outwards and Frodo passed him the pack.   
“Do you trust me, Frodo?” he asked, raising a thin black brow. 

 

Frodo wasn’t sure, but he nodded his head, feeling that he had little to lose and would know if he was being robbed blind and put a stop to it sharpish. He imagined what Sam would think of him sitting here, being tricked by a stranger in his own home. He would see the trick before it was dealt, no doubt and deal his own clever hand – Sam was canny like that and not easy to fool. But he wouldn’t approve; he didn’t like underhand things, being honest and open himself. Frodo smiled as he thought about his love and watched Asher shuffling the cards, the pack fluttering and flexing before his eyes in a mystifying dance, from one clever hand into the other. 

 

When he had done, he smiled and moved to the floor, kneeling in front of Frodo with the pack fanned out in his hands, pictures facing outwards, inviting Frodo to choose. 

 

“Pick a card,” Asher said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. 

 

“I don’t trust you,” Frodo said, laughing, “Not one bit.” 

 

Asher said nothing but waited whilst Frodo flickered his eyes over the pack and drew one card out slowly, holding it close. 

 

“Don’t show me,” Asher instructed. “Look at it – memorise it.”

 

Frodo nodded and held the card tightly in his hand, bending it slightly inwards. 

 

“Now throw it in the fire!” Asher tested Frodo with his eyes, his mouth curving in a delicious smile. “Go on.”

 

Frodo smiled back and got to his feet, challenging and meeting him by throwing the card deep into the flames, shielding it from Asher’s sight as he did so. 

 

“Done!” Frodo cried, as the card blackened and a burst of sudden flame consumed it whole. 

 

“Good – now sit down,” Asher instructed, still smiling and looking at Frodo with dangerous intent. 

 

Frodo sat down and waited for a revelation. 

 

“What are we waiting for?” Frodo asked, puzzled, “Where’s the trick?” 

 

Asher laughed. “You really don’t trust me do you?”

 

Frodo felt the truth of it in his heart even as he laughed and relaxed his body against the chair behind him. 

 

“You’ll have to come here – come closer…” Asher said, his eyes deepening to the colour of the wine, rich and alluring, the dark irises gilded with gold.

 

Frodo’s legs trembled as he crawled forwards on his knees, feeling like a tweener again, playing risk games – putting his hand through flame – blocking out the pain. 

 

“Come closer…” Asher whispered, looking Frodo deeply in the eyes with unmasked desire. “You’ll have to trust me.”

 

Frodo was an inch in front of Asher, their faces a breath apart and Frodo felt a sick lurch of fear as he looked his fears in the face and named them. Asher ran a fingertip delicately along Frodo’s jaw, a whisper of a touch that sent a tremor through his skin.   
“Shhh…” he said, “Don’t be afraid, Frodo,” he said, leaning in, their brows touching, their breaths mingling hot and sweet with wine. 

 

_Sam… oh, Sam…_

 

Frodo found himself pressing his mouth against full, soft lips that fitted his own perfectly, as if they were made of the same cast. Warm and moist, moving open slowly, inviting him in, Frodo’s tongue darted out to taste the soft indent of the upper lip that pressed lingeringly against his own and as he did so, he felt something hard and sharp against the tip of it. “Take it,” Asher whispered under his breath. “Take it in your teeth,” and Frodo did so, biting down and withdrawing slowly. 

 

“Is that the one?” Asher said, their bodies still poised on their knees, one in front of the other. 

 

Frodo took the card from between his teeth and looked at it. “That’s impossible,” he cried, “I burned it! I watched it burn!”

 

Asher smiled and pulled his curling hair back from his head, twining it into a knot at the nape of his neck, where it stayed fixed, seemingly of its own accord, revealing pretty ears and a swan like neck. 

 

“How did you do that?” Frodo said. “It’s mirrors, isn’t it, it’s all done with mirrors?” He looked up at the hourglass sitting upon the mantelpiece glittering secretively, bearing within it the reflection of the two of them crawling on the rug with the room and its contents swelling around them. Standing up, he took it down and held it out to Asher. “Was it something to do with this?”

 

“A magician never reveals his secrets, Frodo,” Asher laughed.

 

“Oh no?” Frodo said, bouncing down on the rug and laying his hands on Asher’s knees. “Would nothing persuade you to it?” 

 

Asher’s face stilled and grew suddenly grave. He placed his hands on Frodo’s face, cupping it gently. Then he shook his head. 

 

“Nothing?” Frodo persisted, recklessness filling his head with fire, wanting only to feel again the uncomplicated pleasure in the young hobbits mouth. He tipped the hourglass and watched the sand trickling slowly like a silver thread. 

 

“Shall I show you another trick, Frodo?” Asher said, sighing and stroking Frodo’s cheek slowly with his thumbs. Frodo closed his eyes feeling a sharp burning deep inside where his pulse throbbed and thickened, pulling him down. He blanked out all thought, all pain, all responsibility and opened his mouth, alive only to sensation and risk, distanced from his own actions. 

 

“You’re so beautiful…” Asher whispered into Frodo’s mouth as he settled his mouth upon it and drew his bottom lip deep inside, stroking it with his tongue. Frodo felt a flame leap within and groaned with pleasure.

 

_“Shhh…”_ Asher pulled back a little, taking Frodo’s mouth in short sipping kisses, slowing his passion, easing them down onto the rug. “There’s no rush,” he said. “Slowly…” Bending his head, his black hair tumbled from its knot and spilled over Frodo’s face as Asher bent to taste the soft skin of Frodo’s throat, where his pulse raced hard and fast. He suckled deeply and Frodo clutched wildly at Asher’s arms, his hips pushing up against him, searching instinctively.

 

“Mmmm, you taste delicious,” Asher said, between gasps, slow kisses and lingering sweeps of a cool and delicate tongue. Frodo threw back his head and watched from the corner of his eye, as Asher’s quick fingers settled on his shirt buttons, his legs straddling Frodo’s thighs, so that Frodo could clearly feel the hard bulge that pressed against his own. “Shall I?” Asher asked, pausing for a moment and looking into Frodo’s face. “Do you want me to stop?” 

 

Frodo shook his head, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes, waiting for Asher to make the next move, riding the waves of sweetness carried straight from his dreams into reality. Feeling the sensations abating a little, he looked up to see Asher looking down into his face, caressing him with his eyes, his elbows propped on either side of Frodo’s shoulders. Then he lowered his head and slowly drew his tongue along Frodo’s lips, making him gasp. 

 

“It’s easy, Frodo.” Frodo raised his hands and pulled Asher’s face down against his own, heat flaring at the press of their bodies, grinding against each other as they opened their mouths, their tongues stroking and curving, each attempting to possess the other, absorbing the life and the beauty they sought. Asher caught Frodo’s tongue and sucked it softly as he insinuated his hand between them and unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt with a skilful hand. Baring the soft, white skin, he sat back on his heels and just stroked him lightly with admiring fingertips. “Frodo – you’re unspoilt,” he said, looking down at flawless moonlit skin, warmed only by the amber light of the flickering flames. “I hardly dare touch you.” 

 

“Please!” Frodo moaned, desire suffocating all else, the thrill of danger filling his head as he opened himself for the first time to the lips of a stranger. 

 

Asher ran cool lips over his heated skin and then Frodo felt the curved tip of a questing tongue circling his nipples and trailing down his chest to his navel, where it lingered quivering around the waistband of his breeches. He jolted as warm breath travelled over his erection. He took a ragged breath and lifted his head briefly off the floor, his head spinning. 

 

Asher raised his eyes to him as he slowly unbuttoned Frodo’s breeches and released his warm cock, kissing it lightly and tenderly from root to tip. 

 

_“Let go, Frodo, let go…”_

_“Ohhhh…”_ Frodo exhaled and then gasped, his hands dragging through thick black hair, tangling and pressing as a hot mouth engulfed him. A little too eager, it seemed, for Asher pulled back and settled Frodo’s hips firmly down against the carpet as he swirled his tongue and pressed back the wild orgasm that surged against him, gentling Frodo with little kisses and soft caresses. 

 

“What do you want, Frodo?” Asher said between kisses, “What can I give you?”

 

“Everything – I want to - feel it all – I need to know all of it!” Frodo gasped out between gritted teeth, trying not to climax too soon, holding his body down.

 

Frodo felt Asher draw away, shivering at the loss of contact, his erection throbbing and warm against his belly, waiting, trying not to feel afraid. Trying not to connect these sensations with love, with devotion, with his Sam. 

 

The warmth returned and with it the gentle press of Asher’s body, hard and silken against his own as he covered him, rocking their pelvises together in a slow, firm rhythm that made him shout aloud. Asher was silent, his eyes closed, his mouth, swollen with kisses, whispering to itself. Frodo raised his hand and touched Asher’s face in a gentle caress. Asher smiled and turned his face into Frodo’s hand – Frodo felt a lurch of alarm that settled into something deeper as Asher moved once more down Frodo’s body, kissing and grazing the skin beneath his lips, adoring and awakening Frodo to thrills he had never experienced before. 

 

“Everything?” Asher questioned, lying with his face pressed against the warm hollow of Frodo’s hip. 

 

Frodo felt no doubt, only desire and a need to feel more than he had ever thought possible. Once opened, it seemed that he could never close himself again and an intense feeling of desperate elation raged through his body like fire. “Yes, please, show me...” he whispered hoarsely.

 

And then there was no time for regrets, as Frodo felt Asher pushing between his legs, raising Frodo’s thighs as he took Frodo once more into his mouth, his fingers rippling and searching as his lips sucked and drew loud incoherent sounds of pleasure from Frodo’s mouth. Frodo’s hips bucked and his hands grasped at the long fringe of the rug as fingers pushed deep inside, shocking him into stillness, making his body roll like a wave. Asher released him from his mouth, with a regretful sound, sitting back and stroking the quivering softness of Frodo’s open thighs, assessing and desiring. 

 

“One more trick?” he whispered. Frodo couldn’t speak, but moved his head and raked his fingers along his own body, feeling how wonderful the resulting ripples made his head feel, swimming in and out of consciousness, burning up into a curling ember, clever fingers finding the fire within him, breaking down his isolation, breaking him into pieces. Sensing that Asher was waiting, seeking permission, he forced his head off the floor and looked the other hobbit in the eyes. 

 

“You can’t be real…” Asher said, gazing into his face, “You must be a figment of my imagination – you’re a trick – I’ve conjured you up.” Asher penetrated Frodo’s deep iris blue gaze as his fingers stroked and opened him to his invading touch. “Ahhh! You’re too beautiful…you’ll do me in…” he whispered, lowering his head, as Frodo’s own fell back with a soft thud. 

 

Pausing once more, holding back, Asher readied himself and then pressed firmly against Frodo, his eyes closed, the unbearable beauty overcoming him as he pushed slowly forwards, taking his time, watching Frodo’s face for any small tremor of pain. Frodo’s eyes remained closed as he concentrated on his breathing whilst the great pressure built in him, sparking fear and alarm, causing his head to burst with the control he mastered over his recoiling body. “Breathe, Frodo, breathe…” Asher spoke softly, stroking Frodo’s thighs, soothing and calming as he waited for Frodo to calm. “That’s it, breathe, slowly now, slowly, I’m going to … oh…” 

 

Frodo opened his mouth, but no sound would come out, only a slow breath, forced from his body as a new wave of pleasure washed over him with each slow plunge. This was more than he had been hoping for, so much sensation, too much, too many conflicting desires waging war inside him, too much – he reached out and clutched Asher’s hand. It was gripped in return. “It’s all right, Frodo, it’s good, you’re wonderful … you’re …oh!” 

 

Frodo felt it first, the bursting shout that roared, a rolling wave of fire clenching inside and shooting without, it took him in its frenzied grasp and threw him down onto his back, holding Asher within him with his heels pressed against the small of his back, rocking and wailing. Asher groaned Frodo’s name and thrust three times, quickly, thrilled and coming, shouting as he did so, jubilant and exalting, his head thrown back in ecstasy. 

 

Released.

 

Frodo lay on the rug shivering, close to weeping. Wanting comfort, wanting Sam. Asher dressed quickly and threw a blanket over Frodo where he lay, still naked and unable to move. He looked concerned and hurriedly poured Frodo a second glass of the dark red wine. Offering it to him, he sat down beside him on the floor, stroking his shoulder in slow circles. Frodo didn’t drink the wine, but stared into the flames. 

 

“It took me that way the first time,” he said.

 

“Who was your first?” Frodo asked, his voice soft and drowsy.

 

“He worked the fairs, running the shies. He had fine golden hair and eyes the colour of cornflowers. I think I loved him.”

 

A tear slid unnoticed from the corner of Frodo’s eye. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Asher replied, “It was my pleasure. Look!”

 

Frodo looked across to where Asher was pointing. The hourglass was draining the last of its sand into the other prison of glass. “Well timed!” Asher laughed lightly, kissing Frodo on the cheek. 

 

Frodo smiled and felt his body settling back into its normal rhythms, breathing quiet and slow, a peacefulness absorbing the clamour of his emotions and sending him to sleep.

 

Asher rose to his feet and, pushing a cushion under Frodo’s head, walked out into the hall, draining his glass and reaching into the pocket of his breeches for Frodo’s best pipe.

 

“Goodnight, sir,” he said, lighting up with a flick of his wrist.


	6. What Lies Beyond

All duties done, an exhausted quiet hung over the Gamgee smial. The two sisters sat at the kitchen table, mending by candlelight and talking in low whispers, trying to keep their secrets from the ears of their brother, glancing in his direction from time to time, to make sure that he was paying no heed. Sam sat, slumped and sombre in the hearthside seat their dad favoured, sinking his gaze deep into the flames – looking for all the world as if he had been asked to answer the riddle of life. Although reassured that they need fear no meddling in that quarter, both Daisy and Mari were troubled to see their brother so sunk in his thoughts.

 

When the gossiping had at last run dry and the sewing candle guttered in its dish, both sisters rose and, after two swift nods of agreement, moved over to the warm hearth and settled themselves, snugly at their brother’s feet. 

 

But Sam didn’t appear to notice their presence, only continued his attentions to the flames, staring with dreaming eyes, even when a log burst and showered sparks onto the hearthrug. After looking to Sam for a response, Daisy reached out and grabbed a small shovel - quickly beating them out and then, after pointedly brushing the black ash from her red skirt, settled back on the floor with a loud and exaggerated sigh. Sam didn’t stir. Daisy eyed Mari with exasperation – silence on a winter’s night being cold and unwelcome company and the secrets of a brother, hard on curious souls. 

 

“Sam – what is it?” Daisy asked at last. “If your face grows any longer we’ll have to start feeding you on hay and carrots!”

 

Mari stifled a burst of laughter and looked up at Sam – seeking even a glimmer of light, a chink of laughter, at least. But Sam looked impassive, unreachable. 

 

“Are you worriting about dad?” Daisy continued, “For he seems strong enough in himself and you know he’s had lots of bad chests over the years and always got over them. It’s nowt that a good sleep won’t heal – you heard the sister.” 

 

As Daisy talked, Mari watched Sam’s face carefully, seeking signs of acknowledgement or fear. She shook her head slowly, watching the flames burnishing her brother’s soft face, dancing in his thoughtful, gentle eyes. 

 

“It ain’t dad, is it Sammy?” she said softly, interrupting her sister’s fast talk. “It’s them strange folk that came with the snow. It’s them, ain’t it?”

 

On hearing his sister’s pet name for him, Sam’s heart pattered a little with love, a soft feeling like snow dropping from a branch. 

 

Sam sighed and rummaged in his waistcoat pocket for his pipe. Pulling it out, he made a slow play of filling it, pushing the weed in firm and full.

 

“You’ve a soft heart, Sam and you worry too much about your duties,” Mari said. “It’s up to Mr Frodo to find help – he has plenty to call on. He relies on you too much these days, Sam. You’re up there from dawn ‘til dusk and stayin’ on to cook – it’s more than’s needed. Mr Bilbo never made such requests!” 

 

Sam lit a taper from the fire and put it to his pipe, inhaling deeply as the weed curled and glowed umber and dark. 

 

Daisy nodded her head enthusiastically. “He takes you for granted, Sam,” she said.

 

Sam exhaled and regarded the wings of smoke impassively. “He don’t take me for granted,” he replied, after a long pause.

 

Both sisters fell silent once more.

 

“So did you find out nothing about those strange folk?” Mari asked, changing direction. 

 

Sam shook his head. “I told you I didn’t,” he said. 

 

Daisy turned to her sister. “I think most of them have gone now, Mari. It was quiet when I went up.”

 

“They’ve left the lad up at the top of the hill with Mr Frodo?” Mari gasped. “So that’s why you’re fretting – you think himself won’t like being all on his lonesome with the stranger and will come calling in the dead of night askin’ for you?”

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair and ran his fingers up and down the smooth long stem of his pipe, listening and absorbing all that his sisters said, even in his distraction. 

 

“He’s been up there too long, if you ask me,” Daisy said. “It’ll drag him away from his books – liven him up a bit, give him something else to do…”

 

“I don’t know how he stands being cooped up there all on his own,” Mari said, disregarding her brother now, being focused entirely on the face of her sister, who was nodding spiritedly.

 

Daisy shook her head, “I know – it would give me the creeps, all those empty rooms, and not a soul breathing – only him.”

 

Sam shivered. Not a soul, but him and the other. The two of them to fill so much emptiness.

 

Sam rose from his chair, knocking his pipe out on the edge of the hearth. He strode purposefully across the room and reached for his winter coat and hat. 

 

“You’ll manage for an hour or two?” he asked, shrugging on the heavy, rain soaked wool. “Two spoons of the syrup if the cough gets worse – yes?”

 

Daisy and Mari rose as one, both pairs of eyes asking the same question. 

 

“Now, you promised, Sam.” Mari said, agitated, “You said you’d stay here and be   
close in case you was needed.”

 

“Mari – dad’s sleeping,” Sam replied, doing up buttons. “The jobs are all done – there’s no need for me to be wasting time, sitting on my backside.” 

 

“You’re not going up there are you, Sam?” Mari asked, rolling her eyes up towards the hill.

 

“Oh, no, Sammy!” Daisy urged. “He won’t be needing you now!”

 

Sam turned, holding in a terrible floundering breath. “If you want to know so very bad I’ll tell you – I’m off to take dad’s place at the Ivy Bush.”

 

“You’re going drinking?” Daisy gasped, appalled.

 

“There are some folk I have to have a few words with and yes, I might have an ale or two while I’m there, if that’s all right with you? I’ve suffered enough for it, I think.” 

 

Pulling on his hat, he glared at his sisters and hunching his shoulders, set off into the wild and rainy night.

~~~

Frodo woke, sore and aching, his head reeling. Sitting up slowly, he looked around the darkened room, covering his nakedness with the blanket held close against his knees.

 

For an instant he didn’t know who he was looking for – Sam? Bilbo? His mother? But none of these seemed close to the resolution; all seemed to be vanishing - swift as the snow. 

 

He stood, wrapping the blanket around him tightly. Unsteady and confused, he walked out into the hall, wanting water, clothing, something to eat. But before he could turn down the passage, he jolted to a stop, pausing to breathe in a strangely re-assuring fragrance that made him feel giddy with nostalgia. A rush of cold air was blowing down the smial and carried along on the tail of it was the scent of pipe smoke. 

 

Could this be it? The moment he had carried in his heart for the past year – hoping against hope – longing for as once he had craved the sound of his mother singing?

 

No one else smoked that particular weed – it was a curious blend, reputedly brought over by a certain troop of south travelling dwarves. A present for a thief – a heady blend that would choke the foolhardy or the inexperienced, as Frodo had once learned, to his detriment. 

 

Frodo stumbled forwards to the open door, his heart tight with anticipation, his head warning him to stop – stop now, before it was too late…

 

The figure on the doorstep, sitting under the porch was wrapped in Frodo’s own cloak, green and soft as velvet and Frodo’s heart dived deep, deep into cold water and plummeted. 

 

“Asher?” he said, memories flooding him, reality storming his skin with the cold night and the rain. 

 

He remembered.

 

_Bilbo wasn’t coming back – Bilbo was never coming back._

 

Asher got up and turned to him. The smoking pipe he held in his hand hung half- hidden in the folds of his cloak, dropping ash onto the floor. 

 

“You’re awake?” Asher replied, looking at him in surprise, his eyes sparking alarm. “You scared me!” he laughed, easing over his discomfort. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

 

Frodo looked him in the eye, waiting for the younger hobbit’s nervous laughter to subside before he spoke, “You know you can borrow whatever you need – you only have to ask,” he said. 

 

Asher looked down, his eyes sweeping across the cloak and the trail of smoke that rose incriminatingly from within it. Then he faced Frodo directly and his eyes were challenging once more and enchanting. “Why so formal now, friend?” he said, raising his free hand to brush Frodo’s cheek lightly with his fingertips. “Aren’t we beyond such things?” 

 

Frodo trembled a little beneath the touch but stood his ground determined that he would not be deceived, his disappointment fuelling his courage.

 

“Just be honest with me, please,” Frodo said, softly. “I don’t want to be made a fool of.”

 

Asher grinned lopsidedly and then drew the pipe out of the folds of the cloak. Hissing, he shook his hand, dropping the pipe onto the floor and releasing with it a swift torrent of hard words, some of which were entirely new to Frodo’s ears. 

 

“Serves me right?” Asher said, bending to pick up the pipe and pass it over to Frodo.

 

Frodo took it and held it gently in his hands. “I don’t mind you taking mine, but please leave Bilbo’s things alone.”

 

“Was that an invitation?” Asher grinned, raking his tangled hair nervously. 

 

“I haven’t much of my own,” Frodo replied. “I don’t think you’d get much for it.”

 

“Is that what you think I am, Frodo? A common thief?” Asher said, his expression changing quick as lightning.

 

“I don’t know…” Frodo whispered. “I don’t know you.”

 

“And I don’t know _you!_ ” Asher hissed. “You could be a danger to me,” he continued, eyeing him curiously, his voice lightening once more to its usual lilting melody. 

 

“I’m a danger to myself,” Frodo replied. 

 

“So, do you make a habit of lying with thieves?” Asher continued, his eyes sparkling.

 

Frodo shook his head, feeling how heavy and light it felt, as though it wasn’t a part of him at all, but belonged to another. As he was pondering this change he suddenly found himself half-fainting on his feet and the shocking force of his sudden weariness sent him clutching at the coat rack for support, as he stumbled against the wall. 

 

“Frodo?” Asher clutched at Frodo’s arm and allowed him to settle his weight against him. “I’m supposed to be the ill one, you know?”

 

Putting an arm around him, Asher gently raised Frodo’s pale face to the dim light and looked down into it, considering. “I’m taking you off to bed,” he said, propelling Frodo down the hall. “You look like you’re sleep walking, your eyes are dark. Tell me when we reach your bedroom door.”

 

Frodo mumbled as they drew level with it and Asher pushed it open with his foot. Stumbling together, they crashed into the edge of the bed and Asher bundled Frodo into it, managing to divest him of his blanket as they scrambled to pull back the sheets. 

 

“You don’t mind if I join you?” Asher asked, clambering over the bed. “I will try not to talk the night away, I promise. I’ll just lie here – quiet as a mouse.”

 

Frodo was just relieved to be lying on soft pillows once more and shook his head, resigned that they would share this bed as once he had dreamed he might share it with his Sam, tucked safe in his arms, loving and warm and open.

 

Dear Sam, where are you? If you don’t come soon I fear it will be too late…

 

Asher loomed into Frodo’s vision, twisting onto his side and stroking Frodo’s face. “Sleep well, my dark little elf,” he smiled, twirling his fingers in Frodo’s hair affectionately. Then, realising what he had done, he clapped his hands over his mouth.

 

“Sorry!” he whispered and dropped down onto his back. “Sorry Frodo!”

 

Frodo smiled, already falling, dreamless and aching – diving into a beautiful void.

~~~

The Ivy Bush was quiet, bad weather warnings and the threat of floods having kept most folk close to home, and only the oldest and hardiest retainers filled the settles and hearthside corners, huddling together over clouds of pessimism and pipe smoke. They looked up as Sam entered, nodding their heads and mouthing short greetings before returning to the ale. There was no break in the ebb and flow of the evening, passing one to the next in the same patterns, unbroken from season to season. No one seemed surprised to see Sam and a seat was set aside for the Gaffer, same as it always was. He sat down in his father’s place. The Ivy Bush looked on change as an enemy and had its feet firmly rooted in the past. It amazed Sam how some could be content with this. To see the world from this small vantage and seek to look no further than the bottom of the jug. It seemed inconceivable that a stranger could ever have passed through here – sitting in someone else’s corner, drinking from another’s mug – surely no change had come here, not in a thousand years.

 

Daddy Twofoot sat on Sam’s right with old Odo Proudfoot eyeing him suspiciously from the other side of the table, both of them looking at Sam with poorly disguised interest. 

 

“So how’s yer father, Sam?” Daddy Twofoot offered, slapping his wide palms face down on the tabletop. “Any better?”

 

“Improving,” Sam replied. “He’ll be back on his feet soon enough.”

 

“Good, good…” Daddy replied, eyeing Odo from beneath untamed brows. 

 

Sam steeled himself, feeling almost afraid to ask the question that burned on his tongue, making him fidget in his seat. He knew he should be making light conversation, but this place was the very last place he wished to be and if he hadn’t these questions to ask he would be running up to Bag End and laying himself down in front of his master, begging for his love.

 

Suddenly, it seemed Odo could hold back no longer and he burst forth in his slow dignified voice, “We all heard about what you did – saving that lad from the ice.”

 

Sam looked up. “It was no more than anyone else would’ve done.”

 

“Hmmm, well I think some might have been in two minds over it,” Daddy muttered. 

 

“Any hobbit would help another hobbit in trouble,” Sam replied. 

 

“Well, there’s some that say that they ain’t true hobbits,” Daddy continued, darkly. “Did you look at their feet? Boots! Boots, I ask you!”

 

“Yes, I saw them,” Sam said, prickling at such coarse prejudice.

 

“And they didn’t speak like us – they sounded foreign,” Daddy closed his mouth firmly on the subject.

 

“There’s nowt wrong with a few differences,” Sam said, his face flushing pink.

 

“Unnatural, if you ask me,” Daddy continued.

 

Sam shook his head, drawing down the warm ale, not enjoying the taste that he had loved since the day he’d come of age and sat, sipping it in his dad’s place, feeling mature and strong and powerful. Now he felt small again as if he had dwindled in the shadows, never finding his true place, always looking to far-fetched things. 

 

But he had found Frodo. He had found a haven in his arms. It seemed so very far away now; it was as if he had dreamed it all just to torture himself.

 

“Unnatural?” Sam asked, fearing the reply.

 

Daddy warmed to his subject. “Aye, they’re a queer sort of folk – Breelanders, some say, or elf struck, one or t’other. Changelings… they use elf magic and all kinds of trickery to take the honest coin from the pockets of innocent folk.”

 

“Now, come on, Daddy – how can that be true?” Sam asked, sitting on the edge of his seat, his fingers pressed white against the mug he still clutched.

 

“It’s true as the nose on my face!” Daddy exclaimed, pointing to the aforementioned ponderous feature with a short finger. 

 

Sam’s heart pounded, “What do you know about them?”

 

Daddy was relishing his moment, taking a long, lubricating draught of ale and then drawing a deep breath. “Well, it were t’other night. Freezing it were, but many folks had turned out on account of these fellows and the gossip that had come with them. Your name were mentioned once or twice, Samwise. Some raised a mug to your name, others were wary and wished you might not have encouraged them in, it being better sometimes to leave well alone and keep each to our own, not bringing in the bad fortune. And so it goes, one arguing against t’other – until the door swings open and who should come in but themselves! That took the smug look of a few faces, that’s for sure – right quiet it went. They walked in with their dark clothes and their big boots and they ordered some drinks to be carried to the Bolger’s table. There were two Bolger’s there, and they had to budge up to give them room, looking at them right startled as they shook their hands. Huge hands, like the hands of men. They ordered drinks for everyone and smiled – that warmed a few cold hearts and soon there was talk again and the old place seemed livelier and warmer than it had for many years.”

 

“Well that sounds friendly enough,” Sam said. 

 

“Well, I ain’t finished yet!” Daddy said, holding up his hand. “When all were merry as Kings, the cards were brought out. Picture cards, you know, such as the gentry play.” Sam nodded his head. “Well they said it was an easy game and one that anyone with wit can win. You can guess who was first up on his feet? Sandyman always thinks himself sharper than anyone else. He walks up and taps the broad fellow on the back. ‘I’ll have a go!’ he says and they spread three cards on the table and show their pictures, before turning them over and shuffling them about until everyone who’s watching is all dizzy and tangled up as to which is which. ‘Find the lass, now!’ they says. ‘Where’s the Queen?’ Well Sandyman he has a right big smirk on his face and he looks straight at the big one as he lifts one of the cards. ‘Unlucky, sir!’ they says and sure enough, as Sandy’s face cracks, the card is seen to be the three of shovels. Well, I must say, it was right funny and we all laughed as he pulled the coin out of his pocket and gave it to the fellow, who pocketed it, quick as lightning. Three times it happened, four. It seemed such an easy trick and yet it were like catching moonlight in a net, you fished for her but she slipped through every time.”

 

“Everyone had a go - they all lost the same!” Odo said, “No-body won nowt!” 

 

Daddy raised an eyebrow at the other hobbit. “They walked out of the Bush with heavy pockets, leaving us feeling like floundering fools and lighter than we’d been in a good long while. So friendly too, many felt that they were taken for moongazers.”

 

“And they call it magic?” Sam asked, “They were robbed blind and they blame it on magic? Those fellows were too clever for them.”

 

“That’s where their magic is, Samwise. It’s in their talk and in their pockets,” Daddy nodded his head decisively and then sat back to sup his ale.

 

“So they left quick before folk realised what had happened to them?” Sam asked, a bleak feeling of hopelessness settling on his shoulders. 

 

“Leaving the young one up at Bag End, aye,” Daddy said, looking Sam hard in the eye. “I’d be looking out for your master if I were you, Samwise - I’d be watching his cupboards and drawers.” 

 

What have I done? I should have been keeping watch over him, protecting him, keeping him safe, and instead I’ve been working and supping ale as if I hadn’t a mind of my own – but were some kind of beast, yoked to the plough – walking in straight lines, keeping my head down, ignoring my heart.

 

Sam got up and grabbed his coat, nodding to Odo and pushing his way past the benches. “Goodnight to you,” he said.

 

Daddy gaped. “Lad! Lad! I didn’t mean you had to dash up there this minute – stay here Samwise and sit your father’s place!”

 

Sam shook his head, already half way through the room, pushing past bodies in his haste, feeling the sweat cooling on his brow as he broke out into the rain. 

 

So they had gone and left the beautiful lad. He would be living with Frodo, talking to him, sharing his food, sleeping under the same quiet roof…

 

Sam walked blindly through the driving rain, sliding through mud and slush, hurrying up the hill in the darkness.

 

_I must go to Frodo – tell him I love him. It has to be tonight…_

~~~

Frodo woke suddenly in the dark, gasping at the soft glide of skin, his body awakening to the call, even as the dreams still cradled him – a summer garden, trees moving in the soft breeze, a riot of red flowers and Sam painting his mouth with strawberry kisses. He lifted his hips, pressing into the warmth, pushing wild fingers into long tangled braids and riotous curls. He wanted to cry out, but he found himself biting his lip. Hushed by insistent lips, stifling the sound before it came, burying his cry in the smooth palm of a brown hand pushed flat against his tongue.

 

The pleasure overtook him and he let it come. Quickly, it tore through his body, making him grab and press the soft head tight between his thighs, panting and sobbing. 

 

For a moment, it seemed he was still dreaming and Sam’s name jarred in his throat like sweet honey, thick and suffocating. But something stopped him crying it aloud. Darkness overwhelmed him for a moment and he reached out blindly, listening to the soft sounds of pleasure breaking beside him, warm and slipping over his hand as the body beside him bucked against his thigh, pressing his mouth against Frodo’s neck.

 

When it was over, Frodo held him and stroked his hair and Asher closed his eyes, rocking back and forth, not in lust, but in the simple, monotonous rhythms of childhood. It made Frodo want to sing and he tried to remember one of his mother’s cradlesongs that had haunted him all his life. Only fragments remained of it now, but he sang what he could and Asher seemed calmed and nestled more closely against him, kissing Frodo softly over his throat, feeling the deep vibrations moving beneath. 

 

Asher knew the song, for he joined in after a time and they ended it together. It seemed very old and very sad and Frodo’s eyes welled with tears. Asher reached up and felt the wet trails that marked Frodo’s flawless cheek then he put his fingers to his lips and tasted them. 

 

“You know why it makes you cry don’t you?” Asher whispered.

 

“No.” Frodo murmured. “Only that it brings back memories.”

 

“It is doubly barbed for you, friend, you shouldn’t sing that song.”

 

“Why?” Frodo asked, “Why do you say that?”

 

“It is a song about the sea and it is a song about your mother. Both of these things are perilous to you.”

 

“Perilous?” Frodo asked, his body stiffening with strange shivers.

 

“They draw you home. Eventually they will call you away and all that love you will lose you,” Asher said, marking Frodo with a biting kiss. 

 

Frodo closed his eyes. “Don’t say these things,” he said. “You can’t see.”

 

“You don’t know me, Frodo,” he replied. “If you let me, I can keep you safe.”

 

Frodo shivered and opened his eyes to find dark eyes blazing into his. “How can I trust anything you say?”

 

“Your uncle was a thief and you loved him more than your life,” Asher whispered. “We’re all thieves, Frodo, we steal what we have no right to.”

 

Frodo’s thoughts turned to Sam, clicking into place, feeling the sting of Asher’s words. He had taken what he had no right to and now Sam was going to leave him and he would be left alone once more. Desolate, vast emptiness embracing him, stunning his body back to abstinent silence, quieting and deadening.

 

“I can show you the sea and we can find out what lies beyond.” Asher bit gently down Frodo’s chest, smoothing each nip with short strokes of his tongue.

 

“What lies beyond,” Frodo gasped, “Is nothing…”

 

“Nothing? You don’t believe that, do you? Bilbo didn’t believe it – he will be going there one day – he’ll be seeking the way.”

 

“There is nothing there for us – only death.”

 

Eyelashes fluttered against his hip. “I’m leaving, Frodo. I’m leaving tomorrow and there will be many months when we shall be apart. Only when the spring has come will I call again. Then you can decide.”

 

Fear and longing for the sea moved restlessly under Frodo’s sinking consciousness, as he lay listening to the hard pattering of the rain on the window, the shifting covers falling to the floor, the banging on the door.


	7. Staring at the Sun

On the outside once again, hammering to be heard, Sam held blindly to his resolution, even as his heart grieved to be once more seeking admittance to the place that held his heart in thrall. Looking for signs of life, he peered in at the darkened windows, but all he could see was the curve of the wall at the mouth of the passage, flickering in and out of fitful shadow, beckoning and seducing him in turn. Sam gritted his teeth in frustration, biting down waves of jealousy. He may as well have been looking into the hourglass once again, full of yearning, watching the silver garden forming grain by grain until it was complete. It left him lonely and aching to enter that forbidden world where time stood still and hours had no meaning. Within the glass there was a remote, timeless beauty that seemed eternal as it sparkled in his hand, but with the brief pressure of Frodo’s hand on his shoulder, he had known that his time had run out and he must put the precious thing down on the mantle piece and take his leave. Dutiful and silent, he put down everything that meant anything to him. But not anymore, even if he had to sit down on the doorstep and be soaked to the skin, he would not put these feelings back and leave them to gather dust.

 

Rain pouring off his curls into his eyes, mingling with bitter tears, Sam pounded until his fists were sore, hearing the echoes resounding off the walls, carrying shock waves down the hall and along the passage. After what seemed like hours, Sam sat down in defeat, the rain running through his fingers as they lay splayed on the cold stone, he watched as little rivulets formed and dispersed, seeking other paths. Half slumped with his back against the door, he was totally unprepared when the door was suddenly pulled open from within and he found himself tumbling face down upon the polished hall floor, his torso tangled over the threshold, whilst his feet were still soles upwards in the rain. Taking a breath, he slowly raised his head, blinking the water from his eyes and what he saw made his heart grind to a standstill. 

 

Asher held the lamp high in his hand, casting half his face in darkness and lengthening his shadow so that it slid off to the right like the tail of a cloak. His eyes were dark with mistrust as they looked down at Sam spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of rain. 

 

“What are you doing here?” he said, his eyes piercing something in Sam that shrank away from their touch. 

 

Sam slowly got to his feet, something setting hard within him, strong and impenetrable. “I want to see Mr Frodo,” Sam replied.

 

“Don’t you know what time it is?” Asher replied, a twist of irritation in his voice. 

 

“Aye,” Sam said, striding forwards.

 

Asher stepped into his path and thrust out the blazing lamp, making Sam step backwards to avoid the hot glass. 

 

“Your master is sleeping,” Asher said, his voice soft but unyielding. “You shouldn’t disturb him when he is sleeping – it would be an unpardonable offence, wouldn’t it?”

 

Sam shook his head. “I wouldn’t disturb him if it weren’t needful.” 

 

“And what’s so important that it won’t last the night?” Asher continued, “The garden won’t wither in eight hours nor the smial crumble into the hill.” Asher stepped forwards, towering over Sam. “Go back and look after your own.”

 

“Mr Frodo is my own.” 

 

The words passed his lips before he was even aware he had conjured them and the shock of them was evident on both their faces. Asher’s skin washed pale and a bright spark was ignited in his eyes. Sam saw it and it filled him with foreboding. 

 

“Go home, now,” Asher said and his voice was firmer now and held within it an unnamed threat. But Sam was determined that he would not go without seeing that Frodo was well. 

 

“Let me pass,” Sam persisted, pushing against Asher’s hip, forcing his shorter frame through the gap between the stranger and the wall. Asher pushed against him more insistently and span Sam round so that he was pressed with his back tight to the panelling, which dug uncomfortably into his skin. Holding his breath, Sam felt his courage waver for a moment as the young hobbit took hold of his collar and forced his head back against the wall, holding the fabric tight in a trembling fist. 

 

“Go home, Samwise,” he whispered, causing a jolt of fear to ripple through Sam’s body. Black eyes bored into his. 

 

“What were you doing,” Sam said, his voice quavering and choked, “wandering about the smial at night?”

 

“That’s none of your concern,” Asher replied, “don’t go getting yourself into trouble, gardener.”

 

“Loose your hold – you ain’t going to harm me,” Sam said, clutching his throat and feeling the hand there relaxing and slipping down his chest. 

 

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Asher said, looking at his hand in horror as if he could hardly believe what it was capable of. 

 

“No – I ain’t,” Sam replied and pushed his body free, causing Asher to stumble back across the hall, the lamp set on the floor behind sending his shadow dancing across the beams, as if fleeing for its life. 

 

Both catching their breath, they faced one another across a pool of light, turning as one to the sound of a door latch clicking open. Frodo stepped out into the passage, a candle in one hand, his nightshirt glowing moon white in the aureole of light. He stood for a moment and stared into the hall, silent and grave. 

 

“Sam?” Frodo said, “You’re here.”

 

“I am, Mr Frodo,” Sam replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought that I would look in and see that all was well, as I hadn’t been up today. I’m sorry it should be so late…”

 

“What time is it?” Frodo asked, looking for all the world as if had just returned from another realm and forgotten his own name. 

 

“It’s just after twelve. Well, that would be my reckoning,” Sam stated confidently.

 

“Been studying the stars?” Asher said, an amused smile playing across his face as he looked down at his own long and slender feet, turning them this way and that. 

 

Frodo yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Well, if we are all to be up at this hour, at least let’s sit down comfortably in the warm.” Glancing towards Sam, Frodo started. “Sam! What’s happened to you? You’re wet through!”

 

Sam glanced down at his wet coat and dripping feet. “Sorry, Mr Frodo, I’ve made a mess of the floor, an’ all.”

 

“Come on through into the kitchen and get yourself warm, never mind the floor.” Frodo insisted, turning down the passage. 

 

“Been in the river too, Sam?” Asher whispered, his eyes darting up to scorch Sam.

 

“I ain’t no fool,” Sam said quietly.

 

Asher looked aslant. “Nor am I, Gardener,” he said and turned down the passage, pacing in and out of shadow until he disappeared out of sight.

 

He thinks he owns the place – he thinks he owns my Frodo…

 

Sam stooped to pick up the lamp. The glass was now blackened with soot and he turned down the wildly blazing wick carefully before following after, his heart resigned to wait.

~ ~ ~ 

Frodo rested his back against the kitchen wall, his head swimming.

 

_He came – he came to me…if only it had been five o’clock – all would have been different. But it is too late – too late. Oh, Sam, why didn’t you come before?_

 

There wasn’t much time to still the racing of his heart and gather his wits as the guilt and confusion crept over his skin. Biting his nails anxiously, he wandered over to the hearth and sat down, the horrifying awkwardness of the situation caving in around him. 

 

_Oh, Sam, how I longed for you…_

 

But now – now he had done what he had done, surely he had given up all rights to Sam’s heart. Not that he had ever had any in the first place; no, Sam’s heart belonged to the innocent earth. 

 

“Why?” Frodo looked up as Asher looked down at him, his eyes searching and needful as they raked Frodo’s own, his hands covering his, pulling them away from his mouth. “Why, Frodo?”

 

Frodo shook his head and sat down on one of the chairs, profoundly shocked and trembling in every limb. 

 

“Are you cold?” Asher asked and looked about him for something. Spying a cloak hanging on a peg by the back door, he walked over and grabbed it, throwing it over Frodo’s shoulders just as Sam walked into the room, flooding the darkened room with light. 

 

Frodo saw it. The look of hurt that washed over Sam’s soft, open face, a face that hid nothing. Frodo had to close his eyes, a headache thundering beneath. “Come and get warm, Sam,” he said softly. 

 

But Sam didn’t move, only stared at Frodo. He could feel Sam’s gaze even as he chased the little dancing lights. “Have you eaten?” Sam said. 

 

Frodo slowly opened his eyes once more, the shock of light making his pupils shrink to nothing. 

 

“You always get headaches when you don’t eat, Mr Frodo.” Sam said, a solemn vulnerability in his voice. 

 

Frodo smiled softly through the pain. “You always know when I have a headache.” 

 

“You can’t bear the light,” Sam said, tears thick in his throat.

 

“No, you’re right, I can’t…” Frodo said, dropping his head into his hands.

 

“Neither can you take your drink,” Asher said, dropping down in the chair opposite Frodo and looking straight at Sam. 

 

Frodo saw Sam flinch, even as he moved over to the pantry, intent on his purpose, pretending not to hear, but the words went in, Frodo could feel them flying like arrows through the air – hitting their mark. 

 

“You don’t need to do that, Sam,” Frodo protested, as he craned his neck to see Sam returning from the pantry with an armful of eggs and bacon.

 

“Why not, it’s my job?” Sam said stubbornly, “And the best thing for a hangover.”

 

Frodo fell back into his chair, closing his eyes against the thudding pain, the very idea of food causing his stomach to lurch violently. He wouldn’t stop him, it seemed Sam needed to do this and he didn’t want to have to send him away, not with the hurt still swimming in his eyes. 

 

“How is your Gaffer, Sam?” Frodo asked, determined to break the uncomfortable silence.

 

Sam turned from breaking eggs into the pan. “Better – he’ll be on his feet soon enough. I should be back at work tomorrow, sir.”

 

Frodo felt Asher watching him, assessing his reaction. “It will be good to have you back,” he said, honestly, even as his stomach tied itself in knots and his heart thundered. He raised his eyes to Sam’s gentle smile and felt Asher’s foot curling possessively around his ankle.

 

He remembered how he had seduced Sam with the same caress and shivered at the memory of their touches, the meaning of which still eluded him. Only the assertion of his own love and his failure to express it, ran clear in his mind, like a cold, dark river. A hopeless journey, for Sam could not return such a love. It belonged to this other hobbit now, this stranger, who could possess every inch of his body and even lay claim to his soul, but left his heart cold. 

 

“There you are, Mr Frodo. Try and eat something,” Sam handed Frodo a plate of fried bacon and eggs piled on a thick wedge of crisp golden bread. Frodo looked down at it in dismay.

 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t eat this,” Frodo said, closing his eyes to block out the sight of Sam’s tenderly prepared meal. 

 

“Then can I have it? It looks good,” Asher said, leaning forwards to take the plate from Frodo’s lap.

 

Sam frowned and stepped between them. “That’s for Mr Frodo,” he said.

 

“Sorry, Sam. I’m sorry you’ve gone to such a lot of trouble, I just don’t think I can. It’s better Asher has it – I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Anyway, I owe him a meal.”

 

Asher smiled, accepting the plate and fork from Frodo’s hands. “Well, I didn’t like to say anything, but I could eat a horse, well, several horses, actually.” Asher took a large mouthful, his eyes on Sam. “And maybe a few cows.”

 

Sam walked back to the corner and rustled about with the teapot, warming and measuring, trying not to watch his warm gesture of faithfulness being devoured by a cocksure hobbit with his feet on the fender. 

 

Frodo curled up in his chair and despite his anxiety, began to feel once more the warm waves of sleep washing over him, recollecting the strange and powerful dreams that had woken him earlier, bathed in a cold sweat. They had seemed to come from a part of his consciousness so deep and intimate it felt like looking directly at the sun - somehow capable of doing him great and immeasurable harm. He fell asleep so easily tonight, as if he had taken a sleeping draught – staying awake was an unbearable strain and yet he was frightened to leave these two together and knew he must not allow himself to relax completely. 

 

Asher used his last piece of bread to mop his plate clean, finished it up and then put the plate down on the floor beside his chair. 

 

“So, you’re well enough, then?” Sam said, picking it up with a frown. 

 

Asher smiled. “Well enough...”

 

“Then you will be moving on soon?” Sam asked lightly, his voice betraying his doubt.

 

Asher’s smile broadened and he stretched out in his chair. “Yes, tomorrow, as it happens. I won’t be outstaying my welcome.” 

 

A flicker of relief passed over Sam’s face and his shoulders relaxed over the pot sink.   
“Your family coming back for you?” Sam asked, trying not to sound interested.

 

“No,” Asher said and Frodo’s eyes flashed open.

 

“You’re meeting with your brothers on the road?” Sam asked, wiping the plate clean.

 

“No,” Asher smiled, closing his eyes.

 

Frodo sat forwards in his chair. “But they will want to know where you are!” he cried, Kern’s dark words still ringing in his ears… He’s in your charge. I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Remember that? Aye – I’m trusting you.

 

“Probably,” Asher replied.

 

“They’ve been at the Ivy Bush, causing some trouble, so I’ve heard,” Sam said, scrupulously scrubbing the frying pan.

 

“And what have you heard?” Asher said. “You convince your master here that I’m a thief – he’s already insinuated it near enough!”

 

Frodo shook his head, longing for Asher to keep quiet, wanting Sam to go home, desperate to keep him safe. 

 

“Well, all I can say is there are some that would say they were made a fool of,” Sam said, carefully, stacking plates.

 

“Fools are born, not made,” Asher replied.

 

Sam dried his hands and walked over to the hearth carrying three mugs of tea. 

 

“Sit down, Sam, you’ve done quite enough,” Frodo replied, longing for Sam to make his excuses, despite the comfort of his presence.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Sam replied and settled himself at Frodo’s feet. Asher looked down at Sam, his eyes glittering in the firelight, his toes tapping to an invisible tune. “Do you have any music in this place?” he said. Sam looked up at Frodo, wondering how he could live with such a mannerless creature. 

 

“You play?” Frodo asked, interest sparking in his eyes.

 

“I do, we all do,” Asher replied. “We’re blessed in that way.”

 

“I’ve often thought it would be a wonderful thing to make music,” Frodo said. “I’ve tried a pipe, but could only make a sound like the wind.”

 

Asher laughed. “That’s common enough.” 

 

“We have a pipe somewhere,” Frodo said. “Bilbo used to play on it from time to time.”

 

“In the top cupboard on the left of the fireplace in the study,” Sam said, unable to resist, even though his eyes betrayed his discomfort.

 

“Sam! You know this smial better than me,” Frodo said, amazed.

 

Sam shrugged and walked out the room to retrieve the well concealed treasure. “Been here long enough, sir,” he shouted, “Ought to know it all by now.”

 

“He doesn’t miss a trick, does he?” Asher whispered to Frodo when they were once again alone.

 

“You’re really going tomorrow?” Frodo said leaning across and putting a hand on Asher’s knee. “You have to go so soon?”

 

“I would rather go before they come for me,” Asher said. “I don’t want them to follow.”

 

“But what shall I say – should they come?” Frodo said, fear lurching in his heart and desperate need curling his hand on Asher’s knee, clutching at safety.

 

Asher laid his hand over Frodo’s and stroked it lightly with his fingers. “I told you I was going away and that you would have to wait. But I won’t forget you Frodo, I never forget a promise.”

 

Asher leaned forwards and laid his lips lightly over Frodo’s, tracing them with his tongue then pulling away; sitting back heavily as Sam re-entered the room. Frodo trembled, unable to resist, even though his heart was torn in two and sick with the need to be close to his Sam. 

 

Sam gave Asher the pipe and Asher took it in his fingers, dancing them up and down the silken wood, admiringly. “A good piece - what would you have me play?” he asked.

 

Sam looked at Frodo and Frodo collapsed back on his cushions sighing. “Anything you please,” he said. “Surprise us.”

 

Sam settled himself once more at Frodo’s feet, his hair crinkling up by the warmth of the fire, golden where the curls had dried, darker underneath. Frodo looked down and had to restrain his fingers from resting where they desired, soft on the nape of Sam’s neck. Frodo watched Sam’s eyes closing as Asher put the pipe to his lips and breathed a soft note into the air. The room seemed to embrace it and hold it steady as it grew wings and took flight, followed by another and another. Beautiful and sad, it was, and full of inexpressible longing. Frodo watched Sam shivering and Frodo’s eyes welled with tears. Notes hung in the air like butterflies, hovering and drifting, fluttering out into the darkness, where they faded to echoes. 

 

When the last note died - circles of diminishing sound spreading like rings in dark water, Sam seemed to fall back into himself, just as once he had done in Frodo’s arms, sobbing his climax. 

 

“That was the finest music I ever heard,” Sam said, his voice small in the air that was still reverberating with the beating of wings.

 

“That was beautiful, Asher, thank you,” Frodo said, watching as the dark hobbit gently laid the pipe across his knee, stroking it softly as though it were alive. 

 

Sam looked up at his master. “Mr Frodo, may I speak with you alone?” he said, breathless and quiet. 

 

Frodo felt a jolt of fear and looked across at Asher. 

 

“Frodo’s tired, he needs to go to bed,” Asher said, looking at Sam with hard possessiveness in his eyes. 

 

“It won’t take long, sir,” Sam continued, ignoring Asher, his eyes wide with supplication. 

 

Why now, Sam? I don’t know if I can bear it. Both your leaving or your love would break me to pieces…

 

But it seemed Sam would not be denied and despite Asher’s dark looks, Frodo rose to his feet. “The study?” he said, determined not to set one foot in the parlour. 

 

Sam nodded and followed Frodo to the door. “Why don’t you go to bed, Asher?” Frodo said, looking back at the other hobbit, who was pouring himself a drink from the wine bottles on the shelf. 

 

“I will wait, Frodo,” he said and raised the glass to his lips.


	8. The Vanishing Trick

Frodo led Sam into the darkened study, pausing as he entered to light the lamp that stood upon the desk. As the oil flared and brightened within the glass globe, it illuminated the disorder that surrounded it, moth white papers fluttering in ghostly piles and dark mountains of leather bound account books locked with brass. Taking the lamp and drawing away the light, he moved over to empty hearth and placed it on the mantle piece, where it cast a softer glow over the patterned carpet and the easy chair, leaving the rest in darkness. 

 

“Sit down, Sam,” Frodo said, ushering Sam into the chair. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it and perched down on the edge, his eyes following Frodo as he dragged his desk chair across the room, bumping into furniture and tearing up threads in the fine carpet. He rested it opposite Sam’s chair and then sat down on it and waited. 

 

Sam’s heart thudded in his ears and his mouth was dry as he tried to wrestle from his mind exactly what it was that he had come to say. Whatever it was seemed senseless now as he sat here in the middle of the night, having drawn Mr Frodo from his bed. Time ticked slowly in the quiet room, the wild, beautiful music still trembling on the air. Sam knew that there were words that must be spoken, but when he reached into his mind to retrieve them, he could find only a tangled dark, hidden behind clouds, irretrievable and receding further, vaporising under his master’s stare. 

 

Frodo waited and when it seemed that the ringing silence would deafen them both, he spoke. “Sam, what is it that you wanted to say?” he said wearily, lowering his head into his hands and rubbing his temples with long elegant fingers. 

 

Sam took a deep breath, watching the slow motions of Frodo’s fingers, massaging circles over his shadowed brow. “I…” 

 

Frodo looked up, his eyes flashing brilliance and fire, Sam took another breath and then closed his mouth, his breast rising and falling. Then he shook his head and looked down at his feet. “I wanted to see you were safe, Mr Frodo, I was worried about you being alone here – with him…”

 

Frodo sank back into his chair. “With Asher?” he said. “Their name is Yarrow, Sam, they are travellers from Bree.”

 

“You can’t trust him, sir,” Sam said, vehemently, his voice betraying his fear.

 

“There’s no reason for you to be concerned about me, Sam,” Frodo said shortly, his eyes darting to the vacant hearth. 

 

“Ain’t there?” Sam said, a savage twist of jealously taking the breath from his body, leaving him trembling. 

 

Frodo’s eyes looked wild, seemingly disconnected from the calm formality of his words, they roved about the ashes and the dust, as if seeking a diversion. 

 

Sam looked down at the rug, chasing the patterns as once he had done as a child, playing with the colours as if they were flowers in a garden, conforming to his designs. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, sir,” he said. Then, feeling a flush of fear creeping up his neck, he added. “I care for you, more than I can rightly say.”

 

Frodo shifted in his chair, his pale hands tracing the carved wooden arms of the wide chair they rested on, his fingers sinking into the deep hollows, burying themselves. 

 

“I care for you, sir,” Sam repeated, quietly, closing his eyes.

 

“I know, Sam,” Frodo said, his voice a soft whisper. “I know how much you do for me.”

 

Sam trembled; sensing the imbalance between their thoughts, fearing the moment was slipping through his fingers. “No, sir, I don’t think you…”

 

He was interrupted by a noise from somewhere in the smial that sounded like glass shattering. Frodo flinched and Sam raised his head, begging that his eyes might convey the love that could find no release. 

 

“It’s late, Sam,” Frodo said quickly, rising from his chair, his eyes darting nervously across to the door.

 

Sam stood up and closed the distance between them. “Mr Frodo, are you afraid of him?” he said, boldly looking Frodo in the face, even as his legs were buckling beneath him. 

 

Frodo’s eyes locked with Sam’s and for a moment they stood dazzled, enthralled, a shock of alarm paralysing Frodo into silence. “Just say the word and I will throw him out of the smial, guest or no,” Sam continued, leaning to press the words, soft and close against pale skin. “I ain’t never seen you look this way, sir, it’s as if you’ve taken fright.” And as he spoke, his mouth moved closer to the snow white skin of his beloved’s neck, halting, speaking softly, he longed to comfort him with all the power in his possession. “ Please, just say the word…” 

 

Darkness and silence and the pale glowing skin under his mouth, trembling, Sam closed his eyes. “Tell me to stop, if you want to…” he whispered, running a line of hesitant kisses along Frodo’s throat. He felt the breath withheld, shuddering under his mouth; he felt the hands clutching at his shirt, digging into his skin. From somewhere deep inside the smial, the music resumed, slower this time, but utterly beguiling. Sam’s tongue darted out and drew cool, long notes across his lover’s skin. Unthinking, he pulled Frodo tighter against him. “Oh…I’ve missed you,” he moaned low in his throat as Frodo bent backwards like a reed. 

 

Cool air washed over him, long sweet notes penetrated the silence, dragging his senses into thoughtless bliss, closing his mind and opening his desires. Telling him what to do. 

 

_“Sam...”_

 

Sam heard Frodo’s voice as if from the other side of sleep, a far distant shore, separated by sea. 

 

“Sam!” 

 

It was harder now, louder and it jumped into his conscious mind like the fall of an anvil. It hurt. Opening his eyes with a start, he drew away, his head whirling, as if he had just fallen through infinity and touched the cold, bright stars. He opened his fists and released Frodo, stepping back in blind amazement, wiping his mouth nervously, his eyes startled. 

 

_What have you done now, Samwise? You took without askin’ – you pressed him for what you had no right to…_

 

The music had stopped and the door was open, a cold draught blew in from the passage. A dark figure stood on the threshold, watching, still and unblinking, a pipe dangling from his right hand. 

 

Frodo stumbled backwards, breathing hard and fast. He turned to Asher, a hectic flush upon his cheeks, his eyes glistening and bright. 

 

“Is he troubling you?” Asher asked Frodo, his eyes piercing Sam’s and holding him, breathless and shamed, running his hands through his tousled hair.

 

“Frodo,” he gasped. “Please don’t send me away!”

 

“Shall I throw him out?” Asher said, turning to Frodo, with a strange amusement in his eyes.

 

“You’ve been eavesdropping!” Sam cried, a sudden defiant rage surging up in him, overriding his guilt. 

 

Frodo closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the desk. Asher pressed forwards into the room; his glimmering eyes fixed on Sam. 

 

“No more!” Frodo cried, suddenly, causing both hobbits to stop dead and listen. Sam’s heart pounded as he watched Asher’s eyes soften and grow vulnerable under Frodo’s anger, his strength and power abating, replaced by something utterly defenceless. 

 

“I’ll not have any more…of this,” Frodo continued, pausing for breath, his head bowed and defeated. “I am going to sleep in the parlour. Where you both sleep is your concern. I trust you will not kill one another in my absence.” 

 

As Frodo left the room he looked at Sam and the sorrow in his eyes was so marked that Sam felt it like a shaft shot through his heart and knew all of a sudden that he had made a grievous error. He stood for a moment, disbelieving, his body shaking with reaction. Then he made a swift resolution and headed for the door.

 

“Crawling back to your hole?” Asher said, from behind.

 

Sam swung back to face him. “Why don’t you just go – you ain’t wanted here!” he cursed, wildly careless of any danger. 

 

“Is that what your master says?” Asher replied, his soft voice slipping slowly through Sam’s mind like dark threads. “Is that his request?”

 

Sam shook his head, “Nay, he’s too much a gentlehobbit to fling you out on your ear, but I ain’t – I see through you!”

 

Asher shook his head. “No, Gardener, you see nothing. I’ve seen it all…”

 

A cold fear stole through Sam’s body. “Leave us be,” he said, protecting the greatest glory of his life, his only concern now.

 

Asher paused for a moment and then stepped closer, his voice trailing to a whisper. “You like tales, don’t you?” he said. “Well, I could tell some fine tales…” 

 

Sam shook his head, “No,” he said, stepping away. “What good would that do you?” 

 

“Little,” he agreed. “It would only cause pain.”

 

“And why would you want to do us harm? We saved your life!” 

 

“Let him go.”

 

“I’ll never let him go,” Sam said and his heart rang with the truth of it.

 

“Let him go and you will free him from pain, you will save his life,” Asher said, pulling Sam against him firmly, Sam’s body was hard and protesting, twisting under his hands, angry tears welling in his eyes.

 

“I love him – I don’t care who knows it!” Sam said, struggling to free himself, his face slipping against midnight blue silk, tears leaving marks of black, his quick breaths drawing in the warm intimate scent of the stranger’s skin. 

 

“But your master will be shunned. It will destroy him and you will have to leave your post in shame. Is that what you want? Surely it is better he leaves now and then none of this shall come to pass. For I’ve seen it and I know the harm it brings…” his voice rumbled through the rippling silk, burning Sam’s ears as he fought to free himself.

 

“You wouldn’t do it!” Sam cried. “You’re a coward!” 

 

Asher let him go and watched as Sam struggled to catch his breath. “You don’t know me,” he said. 

 

“I won’t let him go no-where with you!” Sam cried vehemently. 

 

“Tomorrow I am taking him with me and we shall not return,” Asher stated. “It is what he wants.”

 

“He’s said that?” Sam gasped, a cavern opening within his heart. 

 

“He is restless, don’t you see that?” Asher said. “This place is destroying him and you are trying to chain him to it – burying him alive.” 

 

Sam shook his head. “This is his home.”

 

“This is a prison cell,” Asher replied. “He’s unhappy here, you know that.”

 

“He’s lonely. I can make him happy,” Sam said, his voice thick with tears, his mind beginning to feel the deadening truth covering his hope with a blanket thick as the ice on the Water.

 

“You see the truth at last,” Asher said. “You’re no fool – gardener. You want the best for Frodo.” 

 

Sam still shook his head, even as his heart came slowly to a painful resolution. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “If Frodo were with you I’d never sleep easy again.”

 

“I would take good care of him – we’re like kin.”

 

“You ain’t nothin’ like him! He’s good and fine and honourable and you’re … you’re nowt but a common trickster!” Sam shouted, his hands clenching into fists of rage. 

 

“Let him make his choice,” Asher replied coolly, walking slowly to the door. “He didn’t send me away – remember that.” 

 

Sam watched Asher leave, a blank despair settling in his heart as he watched the light flickering and guttering out, leaving him in darkness.

~~~

_Soft white sand sucks his toes deep deep down where the pearled shells lie buried. He can uncover them if he sinks a little further, pulls a little harder. They emerge, glimmering in the sunlight, radiant with soft colour, palest pink, orange and blue, all held within a cup of gold – the brilliance of which the sun can not diminish. He picks up the shell and runs his hands over the smoothness, the delicate tracery intriguing his fingers, giving his body a gentle pleasure. The sea breeze stirs him, his skin tingles under its whispering caress. The sea; it is ever present. Sometimes before, sometimes behind, sometimes within. It is his lover and his friend – it is his maker, his mother. It sings to him – eases his pains, makes him sigh and nestle into the sand, furled and complete. It makes him complete. When the veil falls, as it inevitably will, pulling him back, up and out of the water, gasping for air – he feels the vacancy – the emptiness that longs to be filled. The water rushes past his ears, roaring, spinning in a vortex, casting him up to where the cushions lie hard under his head, pressed against a damp, cold cheek. He raises his hand, touches his own face, realises, remembers…_

_Here. The parlour. Asher and Sam sleeping in chairs, their faces soft in dreams, all anger and pain erased. All gone. Asher is leaving today. Sam is staying. I am staying. We will be alone once more, together. I have deceived Sam. Sam deserves better. I have betrayed Asher. I have deceived them both…_

 

“You’re awake?” 

 

Frodo raised his head and looked at Asher who lay half covered by a blue blanket, his eyes still bleary with sleep as he shook himself awake, glancing towards the peacefully sleeping gardener – who slept curled around himself, his head buried under his arm. 

 

“Sleep well?” Asher stretched and ran his hands through tangled braids. 

 

“I had dreams,” Frodo replied, sitting upright, his mind clearing and drawing back into focus. 

 

“Tell me.” Asher rose and sat down beside Frodo on the sofa.

 

“I think I’d rather have some tea,” Frodo replied honestly.

 

“Samwise is still asleep.”

 

“I think I can manage,” Frodo replied, looking at Sam briefly, a stab of pure joy running through his veins at the sight of him.

 

“I’ll help,” Asher replied. “I’ll find us some food.”

 

“I don’t think you know what you’ve let yourself in for. The pantry’s bare.”

 

“Don’t you worry, Frodo. I can make a meal from thin air.”

 

“It will be most welcome, Asher,” Frodo said, following him out of the room and down the passage to the kitchen, leaving Sam to sleep.

~~~

When Frodo and Asher had breakfasted and consumed two large pots of tea between them, they sat back in their chairs and regarded one another curiously.

 

“Why didn’t you send him away, Frodo?” Asher said suddenly, breaking the silence that hung heavy between them.

 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Frodo replied, trying to evade any deeper questioning.

 

“You should dismiss him for that,” Asher observed, crossing his legs at the ankle. 

 

Frodo stood and moved over to the sink, tipping in water from the kettle and swirling it with his hand, hoping that his face betrayed nothing of the torment of his heart. “When are you going?” he asked lightly, piling plates into the water.

 

“Soon, before the sun rises over the hill,” Asher replied. Then, after a short pause, he added. “Will you walk with me as far as the woods?”

 

Frodo’s hands stilled and he looked down at the submerged cup under his hands, tealeaves dancing in the water, like tiny ants. “You want me to come?”

 

“Just to the woods. I want to show you the secret path. I have a camp there, it’s a lonely place but I think you will like it.”

 

Frodo paused for a moment, assessing. The lure of the open hills and the cold, clear air seemed to offer a few hours of release before he must face his future and the hurt in Sam’s eyes. 

 

“Yes, all right. I’ll walk with you to the woods,” Frodo replied, feeling he had some duty towards Asher, at least a gesture of friendship, for all that they had shared.

 

“Good,” Asher said, leaping to his feet with a smile and bounding over to Frodo and hugging him from behind. “Thank you,” he whispered in Frodo’s ear. “You’re beautiful.”

 

Frodo didn’t respond, but finished the washing up calmly as Asher disappeared to change back into his travelling clothes and boots. When he had finished, he made sure that there was enough breakfast left for Sam and then disappeared down the smial to gather his walking cloak and staff and attend to a few other small matters. Passing the parlour, he slipped in quietly and walked up to where Sam was still softly dreaming, heedless of time, a beautiful peace in his face where it rested, curved around his outstretched hand. Carefully, Frodo slipped a piece of parchment under his hand and then, being careful not to disturb him, trod silently out of the room, joining Asher in the hall, where he waited now fully dressed and booted and eager at the door.

 

“Ready?” Asher said, raising a brow. 

 

“Yes,” Frodo replied. “Let us hurry, I want to be back before sundown.”

 

Asher smiled as Frodo unlatched the door and stepped out into the sweet, cold air. There was a pale blue mist hanging over the garden, secretive and ghostly and the fields beyond were almost obscured from view. No one would see them; they would slip away quiet as elves in a silver twilight. At the end of the garden Frodo stopped at the gate and waited for a moment, not knowing why, only that he wanted to look at his home and see it clearly once more before he turned onto the road.

 

“Coming, Frodo?” 

 

Hearing the call, Frodo moved to follow but as he turned away, he felt the smial calling to him, dragging him back like an irresistible tide. 

 

“Coming!” he shouted, pulling himself away and hurriedly following the trail of darkness in the grass, up over the hill and out into the mist.

~~~

The first thing Sam noticed upon waking was the smell of the room. It smelt of old oak and soft well used leather, overlaid with ash and embers and damp. Remembering where he was, he sat up slowly, feeling his muscles lock and spasm as he uncurled himself from the chair. The second thing he became aware of was the silence. Although common enough for an early morning in Bag End, upon this occasion it filled Sam with foreboding, for there was not one sound in the smial, not even the creaking of the timbers or the ticking of a clock – nothing.

 

Sam had sat up for most of the night, keeping watch over his master and a cautious eye on Asher – who had curled up in the hearthside seat opposite Frodo, sinking down into the warm folds as if staking his claim. Sam was indignant to find himself pushed to the shadows but was glad to be close at hand. Comforted that Frodo could come to no harm under the safekeeping of his silent vigil, he had relaxed into the soft leather chair and let his guard down for a moment to relax. He hadn’t meant to sleep at all, but somehow, in the darkness, listening to the soft breaths of the dreamers and watching the soothing trance of the flames, his pain had gradually abated and a quiet peace settled within him – a garden of sleep he could not resist and slowly he had entered and was lost. He slept heavily and nothing had woken until now, his hungry belly protesting that it was past dawn. 

 

Sam looked around. The room was empty. Blankets lay in a heap on the floor and cushions were scattered. There was a soft hollow in the sofa where Frodo had lain. Filled with a blind panic Sam raced hurtling down the smial.

 

“Mr Frodo? Mr Frodo!” 

 

Calling until he was hoarse he stumbled into the kitchen and stopped and stared at the remains of breakfast that lay upon the wide table, a plate and a cup set for one. Slumping down in a chair, Sam’s head fell down onto the smooth, honey scented wood with a soft thud. 

 

_He’s made his choice. He’s gone and there’s nowt you can do for him now._

 

Sorrow made him translucent, a cold vessel that could never be filled. There was a damp warmth beneath his cheek; he smelt the beeswax, tasted salt in his mouth and something else, something soft and creased clenched in his fist. Slowly raising his wet face he looked down at what he held in his hand. Smoothing it out on the table, uncreasing, pressing down with his hands meticulously, he stared at the slanting script with vacant eyes.

 

_Please wait for me Sam. I’ll be back before sunset or else I am lost!_

 

He read the brief message fifty times before he was convinced. It was Frodo’s hand that much was certain and contained within it was the promise of hope. The last line, though ominous, did sound like the kind of thing written in jest and Sam could sense Frodo’s dark humour underlying the hastily scribbled words. Getting up and clasping the parchment against his face as if to inhale the good news, he made a solemn vow. 

 

_Stay strong, Mr Frodo. Stay strong for me and I’ll be waiting here with a candle burning, ready to welcome you home._


	9. The Ring of Yew

_I am a spirit of no common rate:  
The summer still doth tend upon my state;  
And I do love thee. Therefore go with me._

_William Shakespeare – A Midsummer Night’s Dream_

Deep in the heart of the forest the light grew dim. The pale red winter’s sky was captured and restrained by a web of dark branches and what sunlight there was left, was soon extinguished. Old oak trees that shimmered emerald in the summer, now stood patient through the dead months, holding their breath and underfoot lay a soft carpet of decay. There was a path through the trees, but it was a secret way and little known. Asher swore the elves showed him and he had followed, hastening to catch a handful of their silver lights. They lured him and baffled him with their songs, dragging him under bushes and through thickets, until he was tattered and torn. When he felt himself close upon their tail, they fled into the dark trees and left him breathless and panting, laughing in a clearing of yew trees, powerful with an old magic – a black ring in the middle of the white oaks.

 

Frodo fought to keep up with Asher’s quick footsteps as the younger hobbit leapt nimbly over fallen logs and climbed up steep banks, his hands clutching at roots and branches as his feet scrambled behind, quick as a fox. Every now and then Asher would sit down and wait as Frodo struggled to catch up. His heart pounding, Frodo clambered up a vertical bank, struggling for breath and cursing his months of inactivity. Hauling himself upwards, hand over hand, whenever he raised his head he saw the mighty oaks lining the summit like formidable men, their faces stern and appraising. Asher had climbed the lower branches of one of the trees and sat watching Frodo, his feet dangling and dancing, his face split with a smile. When at last he reached the trees, Frodo slumped down on the ground exhausted. Asher jumped down with a soft thud and lay on the forest floor, golden leaves and vermilion moss creeping through his hair, like a crown. His eyes sparkled as he looked up at Frodo, who was loosening his collar and trying to catch his breath.

 

“Do you happen to have a pipe?” Asher asked. “I fancy a smoke.”

 

Frodo sighed and rootled in the pack he had thrown down on the ground beside him. His hand soon located the smooth curving wood and the soft green pouch and these he threw to Asher, who grinned his thanks and began to light up, the flash of flame fierce in the still, dark air. 

 

“Was that story true – about the elves?” Frodo asked, turning to Asher, who was lying on his back blowing little interconnecting smoke rings.

 

“Of course!” Asher replied, smiling.

 

“I never know whether to believe a word you say.” Frodo lay back beside him, watching the rings drifting up into the imprisoned sky.

 

“Then you are a hobbit of good sense,” Asher replied, avoiding Frodo’s eye.

 

“Who are you, anyway?” 

 

“Who am I? I’m anything you want me to be, Frodo.”

 

“No, truthfully, I want to know. No more moonshine, please,” Frodo urged, turning his face towards Asher’s. As their eyes interlocked, Frodo saw the fauntling emerge, soft eyed and needy inside the changeling face. 

 

“What do you want to know?” Asher’s voice was light, but Frodo could sense the unease beneath, a tremor of nervous energy caught up in his fingers turning over the scattered leaves.

 

“Why have you run away from your family?” 

 

Asher flinched at the direct question and tossed handfuls of leaves into the air as he felt about for an answer. “You met my brothers,” he said. 

 

“I did,” Frodo replied. “They seemed to love you dearly.”

 

Asher snorted and laughed aloud, a brutal, cold sound that rang through the air. “Love!” he cried. “Love?”

 

“Tell me,” Frodo said, softly.

 

Without warning, Asher clambered to his feet, shaking out and stamping on the contents of the pipe. Then he walked away, his body a silhouette against the red sky on the summit of the rise. Frodo rose to follow, angry with himself for upsetting the lad, but eager to hear more, his feet sliding in his haste. Catching up with Asher, they walked one behind the other, tracking the path from memory, Asher striding determinedly ahead, Frodo padding behind. The trees slept, the animals hid for fear of snow. Not a living thing stirred and the air promised sleep. 

 

“They don’t know the meaning of the word, Frodo…” Asher continued, speaking in short bursts, in rhythm with his long loping strides, his booted feet leaving deep imprints in the moss, the only evidence of their passage. 

 

“Oh they keep me close…I’m the youngest, you see...and the cleverest…and the prettiest…” he added, turning to wink at Frodo. “They want to keep me but they won’t …not anymore…they won’t have me under their hands again.”

 

Half running, they came upon the glade suddenly and even Asher seemed surprised to see the dark yew trees looming up ahead. He stopped dead in his tracks, allowing Frodo to slip over to his side. 

 

“Is this the place?” Frodo asked, relieved that they had last reached their destination, for he was weary and longing to rest.

 

Asher nodded. “It is – I didn’t expect to see it so soon, it’s as if it’s moved to a different spot of it’s own accord. Do you think that’s possible, Frodo?”

 

“I don’t know!” Frodo smiled. “I’d like to think so.”

 

“So would I!” Asher pushed forwards, breaking through the wet, prickly branches and disappearing from view.

 

Frodo soon followed, curious to know what lay beyond. Putting his shoulder against the dark canopy, the heady pinewood scent filled his senses as he plunged into the dense curtain. Blinking, he found himself standing on the other side. The grass was green and soft and here and there white star flowers bloomed eerily, their light vivid and uncanny. Asher sat in the midst of them and at his feet lay a ring of rocks inside which he quickly arranged a fire, gathering sticks from the clearing. Spinning around, Frodo noticed a rough shelter built of branches and covered with sodden blankets. 

 

“Have you slept here at night?” Frodo asked, thrilled at the magic that hummed in the secret place. 

 

Asher nodded, feeding the fire with sticks. “Once only. They soon found me – they always do.”

 

“They were worried about you?” 

 

Asher laughed mirthlessly. “You really don’t see do you Frodo? They don’t care about me they just want to control me. They won’t let me be free – they won’t let me make my own choices – they won’t even let me love…”

 

Frodo crouched down beside Asher, passing him some larger logs, the heat of the leaping flames prickling his skin. “You have loved?”

 

“I have – once. But they soon put an end to that.”

 

“I’m sorry…” Frodo replied.

 

“It’s all right.” Asher turned to Frodo and looked at him with blinding gentleness. “I have you now.”

 

Frodo’s heart plummeted within him like a stone and his body froze. “Asher…”

 

Asher got to his feet and walked over to the shelter that stood nearby. Laying his cloak on the ground, he sat down and beckoned Frodo to join him. “Don’t worry, the grass is dry.” 

 

Sitting down, Frodo sank into the soft ground and watched the fire dancing in the heart of the circle. 

 

“He loves you, doesn’t he?” 

 

Frodo drew a silent breath and held it ragged in his throat. “I don’t know…”  
“Then you must be a fool and you’re no fool,” Asher stroked a fingertip over Frodo’s full mouth.

 

“I don’t think he knows what he wants, he’s young…”

 

“I’m young – I know what I want.”

 

“I know that!” Frodo turned to Asher and put an arm around his jutting shoulders as he sat, taut, hugging his own knees, looking for all the world like a sulking tween despite his words. 

 

“I tried to put him off, you know. I did my best. I wanted you for myself, I still do. I wanted to lure you away with me and ravish you on the green grass.” Asher rocked slowly forwards and backwards on his heels.

 

Frodo tightened his grip on Asher’s shoulder, pulling him against him and resting his chin on the black crown. “Where is your mother, Asher?”

 

“She’s gone, many years gone…”

 

Frodo bent his head and gently kissed Asher’s forehead, the skin cool and moist against his lips. Asher looked up, in his eyes a world of sorrow. “I thought you were the answer!”

 

“And you were mine.” 

 

“But you belong to him, to the gardener.”

 

“To Sam.”

 

Asher nodded, a tear trickling down his cheek, which he swiftly swiped away. “Look at me – idiot lad, good for nowt!”

 

“Shhhh, don’t say hard things, don’t…” Frodo soothed Asher gently and caressed his hair. 

 

Asher jumped back, crouching and staring at Frodo as if he had burned him. “And don’t you go feeling sorry for me and stroking me without no promise of anything better. I don’t want it.”

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry…” Frodo reached out a hand but Asher drew away and stalked over to the fire, kicking at it with his boots.

 

“You were nowt next to him anyway – precious, he was.”

 

“What happened?” 

 

Asher shook his head, his cheeks flushed with agitation. “They took him away, didn’t they? They saw us together, him and me, here in the circle. I was taking him - I had him up against that tree and it was the best thing I ever had and ever likely will…”  
“You loved him.”

 

“Yes, I loved him, Frodo. I would have torn up that tree and pulled down the moon for him. I would have sunk myself in the water…”

 

Frodo looked at Asher startled, his eyes widening. “Was that why you were there that day – on the ice? Did you mean to do it?”

 

Asher laughed, his face turning evasive once again. “Now that would be telling.”

 

Frodo shook his head. “Telling tales?”

 

“Shall we?”

~~~

A long while they lay together, side by side on the fragrant grass, the yew trees keeping out the cold and the snow clouds rolling in.

 

“So, Frodo, will you come with me?” Asher said, twining their fingers together. “Free yourself?”

 

“Leave Sam?”

 

“Leave it all – find the other side of the sea, lie with me – learn to deceive. I think you’d be good.”

 

Frodo turned his face into the flowers. “I can’t.” 

 

“Not for me?”

 

“Not even for you.”

 

“My heart will break, but it is your choice, friend,” Asher sighed, staring up as the first flakes fell silent as stars. 

 

“Don’t say that – you’re stronger than me.” Frodo felt a tiny wet kiss melting upon his nose. 

 

“I’m a liar and a thief.”

 

“So am I.”

 

Asher turned on his elbow and leaned over Frodo. “May I have a last kiss before I go?”

 

“Where are you going, Asher?” 

 

“I’m going to find what lies beyond.”

 

Frodo raised a hand and drew Asher down, their lips pressing warm as the cold ice fell around them beautiful and sear. 

 

When it was over, Asher sat up and began to pull out packages from inside his long, heavy coat. 

 

“What are you doing?” Frodo asked, staring as more and more bags were produced, like rabbits from a hat.

 

“Restoration,” Asher replied, opening up a leather pouch and tipping the contents into Frodo’s lap. “They told me what to do. I was only obeying orders, sir.”

 

Frodo’s gaze widened as he saw what it was that lay in a heavy heap in his lap. Trinkets and mathoms, mainly, small, fine things - old timepieces, quills, candlesticks, spoons, trinkets and jewellery – a ring. Frodo started, grabbing the small circle of gold and thrusting it safely into his pocket. Asher watched him enviously; assessing with his eyes as if weighing up how easy Frodo would be to pin defenceless to the ground. 

 

“I didn’t want it, anyway,” Asher said, dragging his eyes away. “They wanted it. They asked for it.”

 

Frodo piled the objects into his pack and drew it tight securely. “Thank you for returning them,” Frodo said. “They are Bilbo’s things and they are in my safekeeping.”

 

Asher smiled. “My pleasure. But it comes with a price.”

 

Frodo hefted the pack onto his back and looked up. “And what is that?”

 

“If I need help, you will give it. I know what that is, Frodo. A magic ring would come in very useful if I need to disappear.” 

 

“Granted.” Frodo turned away and searched about for the way through the trees. 

 

“You will need my help, you won’t find your way alone.”

 

“I must get back – Sam will be waiting. I have a good memory and I trust the fair ones to help me should I fall onto a false track.”

 

Asher walked up to him and laid a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Love him – if you must.”

 

“I think I must.”

 

“So be it, then. But I fear for you, Frodo.”

 

“Take care, Asher. Come back and tell me about the sea.”

 

“I will, friend.” Asher leaned forwards and kissed Frodo softly on the brow. “See you in the spring, if not before and I’ll be ready to take you if you are willing.”

 

“You won’t give up?” Frodo said, his eyebrow quirking. 

 

“Not when I’ve set my sights on something.”

 

“Farewell, for now,” Frodo said, eager to leave before the snow began in earnest. 

 

Before Frodo could disappear from sight, Asher called to him. “Don’t tell them, Frodo. Don’t tell them anything!”

 

Frodo turned, the snow lashing his pale face, his blue eyes glimmering with resolve. “I won’t let them find you.” 

 

Asher waved his farewell and then moved back into the shelter, curling up in his blankets, watchful and tearless, his dark eyes assessing the sky. 

 

Frodo watched for a moment then walked away, pushing through the trees and hitting the cold, sharp open space of the forest, a puzzle of branches and snow dazzling and bemusing. Steeling himself, his thoughts focused on one single bright point of light; Frodo plunged onto the remembered path, feeling his way with a second sight he hardly knew he had, treading so swift and quiet, the rabbits loped across his path without a second glance and the fox trotted alongside, his nose to the ground. 

 

_I’m coming home, Sam. I’m coming home…_


	10. A Divine Magic

Sam turned the hourglass, starting time once again; hope draining and then renewing with each slow turn. He watched for a moment, the silver slipstream beginning – building the garden within – grain by grain, then replaced it once more, being careful to position it within the very centre of the mantelpiece, as he had been shown.

_Yarroway, Yarroway,_  
Pretty herb of eastern tree,  
Bear a white bloom,  
If I bleed, my love love’s me… 

The yarrow is a pretty herb – but its roots are invasive, they travel in the darkness, bursting into borders where they have no place. The yarrow has a sharp leaf, capable of harm. It can divine the nature of true love, if the rhyme is spoken with the cutting edge against the skin. Like pulling petals off daisies, only crueller.

 

The sky had grown dark. Sam walked over to the window and looked out, anxiously noting the red rimmed clouds gathering over the trees, threatening snow. Frodo had been gone for hours; Sam had counted each and every one as they passed, looking out over the empty fields and beyond, where the trees stood black against the pale sky, growing ever darker as the sun sank low in the sky. After every dark spell of plummeting hope, there came another hour of waiting as the glass was turned and again Sam would take up his watch by the window. If only there was a way he could divine the outcome of this day, he would gladly throw himself upon the fates, for the time weighed heavily upon his shoulders and the hope in his heart seemed tremulous and thin. 

 

The study was dark and cold, as it always was when his master wasn’t present. It slept without him, empty as a hearth without a fire, nothing within it making sense, even the mathoms on the shelf seeming formless and empty, purposeless without Frodo. 

 

_If he didn’t return – what would happen to them?_

 

He noted them one by one. The hourglass, the urn, the blue glass, the little dwarfish carving – the silver candlestick…

 

_The silver candlestick…_

 

Getting up and walking over to the mantle piece, he put his hand on the empty space between the carving and the wall. There was a faint ring in the wood where it had once stood. Gone. Sam’s heart missed a beat as the truth settled on him, bursting out with the first heavy flake of snow tumbling against the window.

 

What else had he stolen? 

 

A hard knot of ice forming within his heart, he saw the small spaces he had overlooked, a slight distortion of the familiar arrangement of heirlooms and books. Here and there, his hands brushed over the ghosts of missing things, wondering how he had failed to notice so many vacancies. 

 

What else had he stolen? 

_Yarroway, Yarroway,  
Bear my love away…_

 

Sam pressed his fingers against the cold glass, watching the snowflakes hurrying from the dark sky, frantically trying to cover the garden in a blanket of ice. Begging them to cease, he looked out, through the glass, wishing he were with his love, keeping him from harm. Aimless, he stood, angry and fearful, his breath a warm cloud melting. 

 

Why was it he was always standing on the wrong side of the door?

 

Feeling the frustration rising, he groped around in his mind for a task to occupy his hands, for he felt he would cease breathing should he sit here any longer. Looking back into the cold, cheerless smial, he shivered and thought of Frodo and the snow and how chilled he would be when he returned. Making his mind up swiftly, he determined to draw Frodo home with a divination of his own.

~~~

Returning from the woodshed, laden down with applewood, still bearing marks of the green summer, Sam strode across the garden. Snowflakes dazzling his eyes, he lowered his head and felt wet ice slipping cold down the back of his neck, trying not to think further than the green back door. When he entered the smial a flurry of snow gained the room with him. Shivering and wet, he bent over the small bed of embers sitting low in the hearth. Throwing on a handful of sticks, he caught the flames, sending them dancing, bringing life back into the room. He sat back on his heels and watched the prisms of light scattering over the hearthstone, enjoying the sheer pleasure in the bursting heat and the dance. Careful to keep the fire alive, he placed three logs upon it, watching as the flames licked about the moss – catching and kindling sparks – releasing the sweet apple fragrance into the room. There was power in the old wood, a charm against all the evils of the world. Sam clung to its warmth and ferocity. They were nearly at the turn of the year and soon it would be time to bring in the green. It wasn’t too early to begin.

 

Sunk deep in a purposeful calm, Sam methodically worked his way through the smial. When every hearth was ablaze, he began to light the lamps and when all the lamps were alive, every candle he could find was illuminated, dissipating every last shard of darkness. Sweating with the heat, Sam unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, his skin burnished to gold in the candlelight.

 

After making up a fire in Frodo’s bedroom hearth, he lingered a while in the intimate quiet, smoothing and straightening rumpled bed linen, pausing to lay his cheek against the pillow and breathe in the scent of desire upon the creased white pillowcase, his heart racing with the danger and the thrill of such an act. Then he rose and tidied away the clothes that lay strewn upon the floor. Amongst them he found the deep blue shirt and breeches that Asher had worn. Holding them lightly in his hands, he stood before the snapping flames, watching the light penetrating the thin fabric. It still smelt of the stranger – sandalwood and weed, overlaid with a sweetness that was almost cloying. Holding the shirt taut against the light, Sam was almost driven to cast it into the flames, the urge throwing rational thought from his mind, but he managed to still his hasty hand and, with his stomach lurching sickeningly, he took it from the room instead and threw it into a dark corner of the laundry, where he hoped it might be forgotten. Closing the door, he whispered a warning to his heart never to set a finger on it again.

 

The snow was slowing to a gentle pattering of lace, soft as fleece against Sam’s hot cheek as he cut down the holly and the evergreen. When he had a good pile at his feet, he heaved them up into his arms and carried them into the smial. His nostrils full of the dark magic of the old trees, he stood upon a chair and fixed them up above the kitchen hearth in a heavy swathe, hung from two large hooks that had once been for the drying of herbs, but had been utilised for this purpose for as long as Sam could recall. Sharp needle stings cut his hands as he twisted and secured the branches of holly and yew and tiny jewelled berries fell pattering to the floor. 

 

Stepping down from the chair, Sam stood and stared at the shadowing green, trembling a little from exertion and excitement, feeling the charm stirring in his blood as he smelt the dark fragrance mingling with the scent of orchard apples, crisp and sweet and mellow. 

 

The smial had been transformed, now all he needed was to prepare dinner and find a good bottle of wine, preferably a rich, sultry red, the kind that would stain lips and tongue. Sam trembled, recalling the gliding touch of those sweet lips upon the curve of his neck – like a butterfly shivering against his hand. Sweet captured kisses. There must be more, there was so much more still left unsaid, so much unexplored. Sam had so much to give.

 

He mustn’t be afraid. There was no reason to be afraid.

 

Dragging a trembling hand down his face, Sam plunged into the crisp darkness of the cellar.

~~~ 

When Frodo gained sight of the hill, he stopped for a moment and stood looking – the last of the snow drifting down over the dappled fields. A night of bright stars swam overhead and an impossible purity lay under his feet. Taking deep breaths, Frodo’s heart stilled when he saw the bright lights in the windows of Bag End, dazzling on the snow – piercing the darkness of the early dusk.

 

It was home, but it had changed unutterably. It was as dangerous now as the distant mountains, full of unfamiliar territory and unsteady foundations, tricks and traps and hopeless, empty expanses. Sam would be waiting – dear, beautiful, loyal Sam – eager to please, hungry for love. Motherless and needy as he once was. Sam – with the smile that made his body quiver, and broad, strong hands that could hold him whilst he trembled with desires he hadn’t the strength to suppress. 

 

He covered the last short distance on unsteady feet, both hopeful and uncertain of what awaited him there – his heart torn and pricking with guilt. 

 

Leaping the fence at the bottom of the garden, his cold feet landing in the old rhubarb patch, Frodo walked slowly up to his own back door, feeling like an intruder. The kitchen was ablaze, the light spilled from beneath the door. Putting his hand against the icy wood, he turned the latch and pushed into the warm room. 

 

Heat and wood smoke and the forest rushed into his swimming senses as he stood in his own kitchen, his cloak dripping wet onto the floor, his heavy pack slung at his feet. Casting a quick look around at the altered room, his eyes were drawn to the great arc of dark yew. Walking forwards, he stood beneath the shadow of it, feeling as if he were being observed by an ancient spirit. But there was no malevolence there, only a deep understanding that rippled under his skin. 

 

Turning back into the room, he froze. Sam was standing in the cellar doorway, his arms full of apples. His hair was rumpled and disarrayed and his clothes looked as if they’d been thrown on – the buttons open and the tails hanging out behind, soft lips were parted on a breath and his eyes were flickering amber amidst the green. A little pointed ear poked from the cloud of golden curls and Frodo’s eyes fixed upon it with an urgency that surprised him. Fascinated, he walked silently up to Sam and reached out his arms to his bewildered gardener, offering assistance, even as his mouth moved inches from the beautiful golden tip, his warm breath covering it and causing Sam to tremble and drop several apples onto the floor, three heavy thuds resounding in the silence. 

 

Neither moved, their breathing quickening in the weighted stillness, the apples sliding in their arms, eager to fall. 

 

Sam spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You came home…”

 

Frodo heard at once, the pain in Sam’s voice and he let his apples tumble as he raised Sam’s face to the light. “You thought that I was leaving?”

 

Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “Aye. He told me so. That you would go and never come back.”

 

“But you were expecting me?” Frodo replied, his eyes flickering around the decorated smial. “You made me a fine welcome.”

 

“It was hope – that’s all. Hopes and dreams…”

 

Frodo watched a heavy tear sliding down Sam’s cheek and he knew without doubt that Sam loved him and the wonder of it nearly took the breath from his body. 

 

“Sam…” 

 

Sam looked up and Frodo saw gold within the green. He held Sam’s face like a precious jewel and looked into it, wanting to read every little sign to be certain that he was right. 

 

“Sam – do you love me?” Frodo asked, his voice unsteady and thick with emotion.

 

Tears raced down Sam’s cheeks and trickled between Frodo’s fingers where they cupped and stroked. “Aye, I love you,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I don’t recall a time when I didn’t love you.”

 

“As a master and a friend?” Frodo said, desperately attempting to conceal his fear.

 

Sam stared straight into Frodo’s eyes and ran a hesitant finger across Frodo’s cheek, the lightest of touches, a look of wonder on his face so piercing, Frodo closed his eyes against the beauty of it. 

 

“I love you in every way that can be named and some that can’t. I don’t know if there is a name for it – only that I can’t be without you and when I thought you gone I near forgot my own name.”

 

Frodo bit back tears as he pulled Sam against him and held him tight, their bodies pressed so close that he could feel Sam’s heart racing against his own. He stroked Sam’s hair, the golden waves rippling under his fingers as he carded through it, brushing the little eartip as they passed, making Sam gasp against his shoulder, where his face was buried, sobbing, his hands clutching Frodo’s damp sleeves. 

 

“Sshhh…” Frodo whispered, stroking and caressing, swallowing deep the dark thoughts that rose with the memory of the one he had left behind. “It’s all right, love…”

 

Eventually they drew apart and Sam stood, blinking and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

 

Frodo held out a hand. “Don’t let’s waste this good fire – come and sit with me.”

 

Sam looked down at the apples that had rolled into the corner of the room. “I was going to bake you a pie.”

 

“Never mind, we still have apples.” Bending down, he picked up a few, tossing one to Sam and biting into one himself. “Sweet,” he mumbled, stripping off his wet cloak and sitting himself down upon the fireside settle, curling his feet up beneath him, his eyes dancing in the firelight. 

 

Sam settled beside him, his cheeks flushed and rosy and his lips wet with running juice. He watched Frodo intently as he ate his apple, taking long slow bites. Hating the distance between them, Frodo reached out and laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder, pulling him gently in. Sam went eagerly, settling himself against Frodo’s chest, his legs splayed along the dark wood, alongside Frodo’s, their feet brushing together. Frodo listened to the soft noises Sam made as he finished his apple, diligently eating every last piece of sweet white fruit and sucking the juice so as not to waste a drop. Tenderly, Frodo toyed with Sam’s curls, the spreading golden crown just beneath his chin and as he did so he felt Sam’s feet curling around his own. Laughing lightly, dizzy with exhilaration, Frodo bent and soft as a breath, kissed the golden ear tip. Sam jerked back against him and gasped audibly. A log snapped in the fire and Frodo leaned back, his fingers continuing their gentle play, pulling and twirling each tiny curl. 

 

Frodo heard Sam groan low in this throat and toes twined around his own. Frodo closed his eyes and tried to still his quickened breaths.

 

_Oh, be slow. Slowly…_

 

He warned himself even as the fire spread out from the very core of his being, now hardened and pulsing with delight. Surely Sam must feel it, sitting so close between his legs? Sam wriggled back against him and the burning pleasure of it nearly made Frodo swoon, so he stilled his body and fought for air, like one who is drowning. 

 

“Frodo,” Sam whispered. “Frodo…”

 

Frodo held back, biting his lips, his fingers twisting in Sam’s hair, holding him steady, afraid of his own passion. 

 

“Sam, is this – is this what you truly want?” he said, his body tense and hard, taut as a bowstring. 

 

Sam twisted against him, so that their faces were just inches apart, Frodo could feel the heat of desire radiating through Sam’s skin as he breathed upon his lips the taste of apples. “Aye – I want it,” he ground out, shakily. “I want you.”

 

Before Frodo could think of another word, Sam was kissing him. Kissing him strong and firm, his hands sliding down Frodo’s cheeks, stroking and re-forming, cupping the kiss between his hands. Frodo clutched at Sam’s shoulders for support as he found his head hitting the high side of the settle, his lips opening to Sam’s searching tongue. Fire leaped in his belly and his legs bent to pull Sam closer against his throbbing core. Sam ground himself against him as he plunged into the heat of Frodo’s mouth, their tongues twining together, Sam luring Frodo deeper into his mouth and trapping him there, his fingers making circles upon Frodo’s jaw as his own moved slowly and rhythmically up and down. When at last the kiss eased to little nips and sucks, they pulled themselves apart, still clutching and staring at one another, bewildered and enflamed. 

 

_“Sam…”_

 

Sam hushed him with a gentle kiss. “Will you take me to bed?” he said, getting up and looking down at Frodo where he lay, breathless and flushed, his dark curls falling into his eyes.

 

Frodo eased himself upright on trembling legs that had no more substance than air. “Yes, love,” he said, shaking. 

 

Sam turned to lead the way but Frodo lingered for a moment, insecurities straining to be heard beneath the pounding of his blood. “Sam…” he said and Sam turned in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his body outlined in a ring of gold. 

 

“Yes, Frodo, me dear?”

 

Frodo would have spoken then but the words jarred in his throat. “Nothing, Sam,” he said, “it’s nothing…”

 

Sam reached out a hand and, still smiling, led Frodo out into the flickering passage where they passed as soft as shadows, holding their breath.

~~~

The bedroom was hot, stifling even as Frodo sat down upon the edge of the bed watching as Sam moved about the room lighting candles and setting the fire to rights, piling on more logs and brushing up the cinders. Sam moved to draw the curtain across the window but Frodo stopped him.

 

“No – leave it, Sam. The night is beautiful.” 

 

Sam looked out and admired the stars. “They are beautiful, aren’t they? They look like they’re dancing!”

 

Frodo smiled and climbed up onto the bed where the quilt was spread clean and soft, not a trace of the previous night remained. Frodo wished he could wipe it out altogether, but there was no hope of that. Lying back on the pillows, he watched Sam looking out in innocent bliss, his eyes full of wonder. 

 

“Come to me, Sam,” he said, feeling a terrible emptiness wash over him, aching to be   
filled, holding out his arms to his love, vulnerable and afraid without the heat of wine in his head. 

 

Sam climbed onto the bed, gazing down on Frodo’s face, ethereal in the half-light. He   
smiled sweetly as he lay down beside Frodo, his head propped up to better observe the rich beauty below. “I feel like dancing,” he said, softly. 

 

Frodo smiled and raised a hand to Sam’s face, gently caressing. “Dance with me,” he said and closed his eyes, pulling Sam’s head down so that their lips met once again and moved in hungry rhythm, Frodo urging Sam on with quick bites and darts of his tongue, feeling the blissful relief of love surging through him as he raked his fingers through Sam’s hair.

 

Breaking apart, Sam sat shaking, his lips swollen with kisses and his eyes half -drowsy with lust. “I want to touch you,” he said. “Can I touch you?”

 

Frodo murmured his assent, closing his eyes as Sam started to unbutton his shirt and pull it from his shoulders. The heat in the room made the fabric cling to his skin and Sam had to wrench it from his arms forcibly before casting it aside and sitting back to look down on what he had revealed. Breathing hard, Sam began to undress himself, pulling his shirt off over his head, not wanting to waste time with buttons. Frodo’s heart raced and his head span with excitement, the heat prickling his skin, making him sweat, his body glistening in the candlelight, courted by shadow and starlight – the image of perfection. Sam quickly kicked off his breeches and lay down over Frodo, covering him as the fresh snow covered the fields. Frodo raised his head from the pillows and gently suckled upon Sam’s neck, wanting to taste. Sam groaned and tossed back his head, their arousals brushing together expectantly, kindling flame. Sam tasted of the snow – fresh and clean – as if he were truly a spirit of the earth. Frodo suckled harder, hungry and fierce, and Sam moaned again and pulled Frodo against him, moving his hips restlessly – seeking. 

 

Frodo let go, shocked by the mark he had made on Sam’s flawless skin. Soothing it with long, slow laps of his tongue, he felt the slow exploration of Sam’s hands over his chest and down to his navel. He felt Sam’s fingers on the buttons of his breeches.  
Lifting his hips, he let Sam slide them down his legs and off his feet. He heard them falling to the floor with a soft sound. 

 

“Frodo…” Sam moaned, stroking his fingers down the length of Frodo’s body, sitting on his heels, with the firelight flickering behind, his strong, clenched thighs and full, swaying cock illuminated by the light. Sam looked powerful, confident – stronger than Frodo’s wildest imaginings. 

 

“I want to taste you,” Sam said, his eyes devouring Frodo’s skin. “You’re so beautiful, Frodo. I love you so much.” 

 

“Please, Sam…” Frodo whispered, his head aching with the effort of watching. It slammed back down as Sam took him deep into his mouth, adoring his hot flesh with his eager curling tongue, dragging cries from Frodo’s tight throat, making his hands clench in the sheets as he felt waves of sticky heat flowing through his skin. Sucking and stroking as Frodo writhed on the damp sheets, all conscious thought was driven from Frodo’s mind – only sensation remained and the awareness that this was the purest pleasure that he had ever felt and he never wanted it to end. 

 

Groaning with the effort, he felt dimly in his mind that he wanted to stop Sam before it was too late and he clutched feebly at Sam’s hair as the blinding waves of orgasm started to claim him. Sam tried to pull up Frodo’s hips, holding him captive, but Frodo cried out Sam’s name with such vehemence that Sam was shocked into submission and let him go, relinquishing the trembling, shining cock with reluctance, kissing it softly where it rested against Frodo’s hitching belly. 

 

“Sam, come here,” Frodo gasped and Sam crawled up the bed and lay down beside him, looking into Frodo’s face with love struck eyes, his lips moist and glistening, his fingers caressing, pushing back Frodo’s hair. 

 

“I love you, Sam, you know that don’t you? You know that I love you?” Frodo urged, his eyes flashing dark and wild. 

 

“I know now,” Sam said, smiling, “I think I always knew…”

 

Frodo laid a finger against Sam’s lips. “I never told you – I was so afraid…”

 

“Of what?” Sam asked, laughing, kissing Frodo lightly again and again, draping his thigh over Frodo’s hip. 

 

“Of this,” Frodo said. 

 

“This?” Sam sounded surprised and looked at Frodo with amusement in his eyes. “Why would you be scared of me loving you, making you happy?”

 

Frodo shook his head, the sting of his own folly making it hard to meet Sam’s gaze. “Let’s not talk anymore, not now,” Frodo said. “Love me, Sam, just love me.”

 

Sam’s smile broadened and spread to his eyes, bathing them with warmth. “Yes…” he whispered, pulling them together, feeling Frodo gasp as he held his slender hips and guided them against him. “Turn around,” Sam whispered, shifting Frodo so that he lay with his back to Sam’s chest. Sam stroked Frodo gently as he moulded his body against the soft curve of Frodo’s behind. “Sshhh, love, you’re trembling…”

 

_“Sam….”_

 

“Shhhh….it’s all right, me dear – I won’t hurt you.” Sam moved gently, rubbing himself against Frodo, pushing between his legs, reaching with his hand, their cocks brushing together with each gentle thrust. Frodo gasped and arched back to pull Sam closer, his head twisting to reach Sam’s mouth. Kissing clumsily, they moved together, quickening as Frodo began to moan and push back against Sam’s chest. Sam’s thrusts were slick and fast, sweat and stickiness easing each thrust, so the next was smoother, hotter, bringing Frodo to the edge and then pulling him back, his climax tightening and heaving inside as he cried Sam’s name and fought to hold them both together, his stomach muscles clenched and quivering. 

 

_Love you, Love you, Love you, Love you…_

 

“Oh, love…” Sam groaned and gripped Frodo’s shoulders as he shuddered and spurted warm between Frodo’s thighs. Frodo twisted in Sam’s arms and held him as he came, feeling the wings of his climax lifting him as he fell onto the pillows, pulling Frodo down on top of him. “Ohhhh…” Sam groaned and looked blearily into Frodo’s face. “Ohhh…what have I done?” 

 

Frodo smiled, kissing Sam with infinite tenderness, tasting himself on Sam’s lips. 

 

“I took for meself and left you wantin’” he panted. “Let me…”

 

“No, Sam,” Frodo said, curling into Sam’s broad chest, his face nuzzling the soft golden skin, breathing in the loving warmth. 

 

“But you haven’t…”

 

“No,” said Frodo and smiled, listening to the slowing of Sam’s steady heart. 

 

“It would be no matter, Frodo, honest…”

 

Frodo laughed and wriggled against Sam, pulling Sam’s hand over and curling it around his cock. “If you insist,” he said, sighing as Sam began to slowly stroke and pull. It wasn’t long before Frodo was crying out and spilling over Sam’s hand and Sam held him until the shudders had subsided and his cock had softened and shrank away, and even then he held it in his palm, like the most delicate of flowers.

 

Frodo blinked and the room stopped spinning. He raised his head and his Sam was there, smiling and watching over him, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. “Thank you, my love,” he said, looking up into Sam’s gentle eyes.

 

“For what?” Sam pulled the quilt up over them both where they still lay entwined. 

 

“For waiting for me.”

 

“I would have waited here forever, Frodo. I would never have given up hope.” Sam bent and kissed the top of Frodo’s head. “What would you have me do? Should I leave you to rest?”

 

Frodo raised a hand and clutched at Sam’s curls. “Sleep here, please Sam love, don’t   
leave me…” 

 

“I’ll not leave you, Frodo.” 

 

Sam held him tight, breathing in the dark yew - the stars glimmering on the snow and the fires slowly dying.


	11. The Yule Fires

The flames sliced through the dark air, weaving and spinning, casting showers of sparks that fell like jewels running through unlaced fingers. The air was full of the sound of roaring and shouting and laughter that climbed higher with each bold new flame. The heat on Sam’s face was intense as he stood at his Gaffer’s side, thrusting a stout stick into the fire, watching it fall into the blackened heart of the great beast, where it was quickly consumed. The hobbits stood back a little as the fire stretched and burst in erratic blasts of wild energy, their hands loosely entwined, and their eyes shining brightly with excitement. Some yelped and stepped back, brushing the sparks away from long skirts and vulnerable feet, but others bore the heat and the stinging smoke, for the wild pleasure that came from standing so intimately close to the wonder and danger of the Yule fire. 

 

Roaring and gathering its strength, the fire was arching upwards, building a ladder to the stars. Sam looked up at the beautiful weaving patterns in the black sky, his breath white and clear in the sharp, sweet air. Fingers of searing heat tore up his face and made his eyes water, but he relished every sting, feeling the raw power surging through him, dancing with the elation that dwelt in his heart, sending it sparking into the darkness like a great rocket, with a streaming tail. 

 

Sam felt his hand released and turned to his Gaffer, who stood beside him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and stepping away. 

 

“Dad?” Sam moved closer, turning his back on the flames. 

 

The Gaffer shook his head, still covering his eyes, “No, no, it’s nowt, just a bit of smoke.”

 

“Let me look, dad.” Sam tried to pull his father’s hands away.

 

“It’s nowt – you’ve no need to go fussing over me,” the Gaffer snapped, standing his ground stubbornly. 

 

But Sam could see from the tears streaming from his eyes, that his dad was weary of the fire and could not stand much longer. 

 

“Shall we go for a drink now, dad?” 

 

Hamfast stood a moment in stillness and contemplation, a broad and stoical figure watching the bursting of a million tiny flowers, through smoke scorched eyes, as if through a veil of mist. 

 

“Aye, ready enough,” he replied at last, staring at his youngest son, who stood waiting on the edge of the light, his face brighter and more alive than Hamfast had seen it for many a year. “Shall we go?” he said, looking at Sam intently with grave grey eyes. 

 

“Aye, lets!” Sam smiled and, after waiting respectfully for his father to lead the way, followed onwards to the ale tents with a spring in his step.

~~~

Having secured his father a table and a jug of spiced ale, Sam scanned the crowded tent, his eyes flickering and roaming over every table and shadowed corner, his ears ringing with the roar of drunken laughter and raised voices. Bodies brushed past him where he stood, cradling a mug of ale and sipping at it slowly as his eyes roved impatiently over familiar faces.

 

“Sam!”

 

Sam turned sharply at the sound of merry laughter at his elbow and a sharp nudge in his side, causing him to slosh ale onto his shirt. 

 

“Hey!” Sam frowned, brushing his front. 

 

“Since when have you cared so much for your looks?” The fair young hobbit laughed and shook out her wheat coloured curls. “Give us a hug.”

 

“May!” Sam grinned and embraced his sister heartily, making her squeak as he lifted her off the ground. 

 

“Told you I’d be back for Yule!” she laughed, after she had caught her breath. 

 

“You’re looking fine,” Sam said, noting how bonny and tall she had grown in the months she had been away, apprenticing to a herb wife in Tuckborough. 

 

“Do you think?” she grinned, playing with her hair. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. Is there something they ain’t told me?” A smirk slowly turned up the corners of her lips. “Sam – you’re not courting are you?” she whispered.

 

Sam coloured and sipped his ale. “Nah…” he said. 

 

“Are you sure – you look awful guilty?” May persevered, looking right up into Sam’s slanted gaze. 

 

“And you’ve come home with a snaky tongue!” Sam laughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. May tapped his hand severely and then pulled his arm.

 

“Come with me!” she said, drawing him out of the tent, a brilliant gleam in her pale blue eyes. 

 

“Hey! Where are we off to?” Sam muttered, trying not to spill his ale. “What about dad?”

 

“Oh, dad’s all right – he’s yattering away to Daddy Twofoot – he’ll be happy enough for a good few hours – he’ll not even know you’ve gone!”

 

“But, where are we…” Sam was trying not to trip over his feet as May weaved her way through the crowds. “Hey – slow down!”

 

“Come on, Sam!” she laughed, yanking her brother’s arm as they raced across the Party Field, the cool damp grass tickling their ankles, their laughter a sailing white arc trailing behind. 

 

Sam dropped his ale somewhere along the way and only stopped laughing when he fell, belly first onto the hillside that faced the empty town below. May was leaning up on her elbows, looking down into the valley and Sam wriggled up beside her to see what was attracting her attention. 

 

“What is it?” Sam asked and even as the words passed his lips, they fell like pale echoes, for below, in the flat water meadows beside the dark river, the looming wagons and tents stood like great sailing ships, illuminated by fire and lantern. Dark figures moved slowly about the encampment, gliding in and out of the circles of light. 

 

“Travellers, Sam!” May whispered. “Daisy’s gone down there and some of the Cotton lads. They’re telling fortunes.”

 

“Surely you don’t go in for such foolish things?” Sam said, through gritted teeth, his hands clutching at the grass. 

 

“Will you go down with me?” May said, turning to Sam with wide, imploring eyes. “I want to look at the wagons, they’re so pretty.”

 

“Daisy’s down there?” 

 

“Yes! Please come!” May cried, holding out her hand. “It’ll be fun! Exciting! Come on – it’s about time you let yourself go. They’ve all been telling me how hard you’ve been working up the Hill, stopping till all hours, getting no rest.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I have to get back.” 

 

He might be there – he might be waiting beside the fire…

 

“Oh Sam!” May stamped her foot. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your favourite sister now would you? Kidnapped by strangers, bundled into a mysterious tent, married off as a prize?” she teased, winding her fingers into her brother’s palm.

 

Sam shivered, foreboding creeping under his skin as he looked down at the figures below. 

 

_Go…discover the worst and be watchful…_

 

Sam sighed heavily. “All right, I’ll come, but only to bring Daisy back. No fooling now, May. We’ll find Daisy and then get right back to the party.”

 

“Yes, Sam,” May laughed, running down the hill towards the lights below until she was nothing more than a glint of gold in the moonlight. Sam turned back once more towards the party, where the fiddlers were tuning up their instruments and made a silent vow to return. 

 

“Wait – wait for me!” he cried, running down the hill towards the river.

~~~

Frodo stood before the looking glass, carefully smoothing the rich dark red waistcoat; regarding himself curiously, as he stroked the silken material, brushing away the soft particles of dust and dried lavender that clung to the fine threads. He drew in a deep breath and watched the slight pale form in the mirror, pulsing for a moment with life, before it stilled once more, staring at him with watchful eyes, luminous and wary in the soft lamplight. He raised his hands to his hair and stroked his curls back from his face where they had grown a little long, watching his ghost self mirroring and seducing. He watched the light playing in the stranger’s curls, enriching the colour to chestnut and draining his skin to white. How fragile he seemed and how altered, his eyes knowing now where once they held only secrets. Now the sweet knowledge lay in heavy dark pools captured within each ring of blue. He raised his fingers and drew them along his face, watching the spirit lips fall open as spread fingers brushed gently down.

 

He should be at the party by now. It was getting late; the darkness was falling around him in heavy swathes, yet he was reluctant to leave. Something was keeping him here, rooted to the mirror, dressing slowly and with infinite care. He knew that Sam would be waiting and still he lingered, feeling the time drawing out like a reel of thread. 

 

Sam would be with his family and his friends, drinking and laughing with casual affection. Knit close within a warm circle of family love he had no right to enter. Sam would see him. He would want to come to him, he would try to break away from his family, and they would resist, pulling him back. He had no right to Sam – no right to claim him there, perhaps it was better he stayed away. 

 

Frodo turned from the glass and walked up to the window. He could hear the faint sounds of music and cheering voices carrying up the hill and could see in the sky above the trees, dancing orange sparks, shooting high over the grasping branches. The fire called to him, chanting its ancient spell, promising him Sam and the taste of spiced ale on his lips. It called to him of stolen passion and fleeting touches in the dark, and yet he was afraid. The last few weeks had been like a dream; he couldn’t bear for anything to disturb the warm rhythm of their days. Five o’clock on the first stroke, Sam would be so eager to fall into his arms, that he would drop his tools carelessly on the doorstep and his mouth would open readily under his. An hour they would lie, sometimes on the sofa, sometimes in Frodo’s bed, sometimes on the hard settle in the kitchen, wherever they could stumble to in their haste, words of love caressing and entwining as they fell. 

 

Turning from the window, Frodo sank down on the edge of the bed, looking at his hands.

 

A party held so many dangers, both unseen and unexpected. Too many memories lay waiting to be summoned. Bilbo and his vanishing trick - levity and goodwill trickling away into disbelief. Coloured flags fluttering in the silence before the accusations began. Something shuttering inside.

 

Love fled as quickly as it came. Perhaps love was like that – perhaps it can never be caught, but slips through the door like a shadow – leaving no answers behind, only memory and supposition.

 

_Something about my life seems like a riddle I can’t resolve. Tricks and tales and heirlooms - a red silk waistcoat, a golden ring, an hourglass. Visions and dreams - an inheritance of secrets._

_I wish Sam would leave the party. I wish he would come to me and hold me, unquestioning._

 

He couldn’t go. He would stay and hope that Sam would come. He would sit and read, open a bottle of wine and drink until the ache of anticipation grew less and the desire to sleep would overtake him at the last – if all came to nothing. 

 

Leaving the bedroom, he walked down the passage to the kitchen, breathing in the fierce fragrance of the evergreen that hung from the beams, stranger and darker in the evening, as if it had unaccountably grown and become possessed of a soul. A lamp flickered on the kitchen table and shed enough light for Frodo to find his way to the pantry and locate the exact bottle of wine he had been anticipating – potent and red and strong. Catching up a glass with his finger, he turned to carry both into the bedroom, hoping to retreat to its warm comforts, heaps of soft pillows at his back and a warm fire at his feet. 

 

Before he had taken a step, a cold breeze trickled past his ear and sent him spinning on his heel to face the back door, glass and bottle chiming as they struck together. There was nothing. The door was closed and the window. The glass reflected the interior of the room – the lamp, the table, his stricken face, the shock in his eyes, the bottle, and the wineglass. Breathing deeply, trying to still his jangling nerves, he leaned for a moment against the back of a chair, his head bowed and his eyes closed. From outside he could hear the sound of distant music, a steady drumbeat and the playful dance of the fiddles.

 

Straightening up, still breathing fast, he turned to leave the room, eager to curl up in the sheltering blankets. 

 

There was a noise. A soft shuffling on the threshold of the cellar door, where the shadows gathered the deepest. 

 

“Sam?” Frodo’s voice was uncertain and strained. “Sam – is that you?”

 

Another voice answered. It was deep and lilting and unforgiving. “Nay, Mr Baggins, you have the wrong hobbit altogether.” 

 

Frodo froze as a tall, broad shape stepped out of the darkness, his hand outstretched, a dark green coat flapping at his booted heels and the wet brim of his hat overshadowing his eyes. When he spoke his deep voice dripped with menace. 

 

“So, Mr Baggins, have you kept to your word?” 

 

Frodo felt a wash of anger and fear flooding him as he faced Kern across the kitchen table. 

 

“How did you get in?” he said, steeling himself against the intruder even as his knuckles clenched white around the chair back. 

 

Kern stepped forwards, shaking his head. “Not such a pleasant welcome as the last – won’t you be offering me a drink?” He picked up the bottle and shook it, staring at the swirling dark contents by the light of the lamp. “So well provided for, ain’t ye?” he smiled, baring wolfish teeth. 

 

“I want you to leave,” Frodo replied, holding himself steady, his voice still retaining a measure of calm.

 

“I’ve come for my own,” Kern replied. “As was promised. Well and unharmed…”

 

Frodo let go of the chair and paced around the table, edging towards the door. 

 

“Will you not show him to me, Mr Baggins? Where have you hidden him?” Kern took the wine bottle in his hand and threw it, once, twice, turning in the air, before catching it with a grin and a flourish. “Good – yes?” He laughed loudly, watching Frodo with cold eyes, assessing his reactions, calculating his moves as if they were merely playing games. 

 

“Asher has gone,” Frodo said softly, his heart hammering despite the level tone of his voice. 

 

Kern smiled slowly, the awful incongruity of it making Frodo’s blood run cold. “Aye, so it seems…” he said, piercing Frodo with eyes that held nothing but the shadows of a hard life and an emptiness webbed with hate. 

 

“It was his choice,” Frodo continued. “There was nothing I could do to stop him. I did all I could.” But even as he spoke, the lies that lurked at the corners of his words spat poison. Kern was staring at him and he was certain in that moment that he could see everything; read his thoughts, penetrate his heart, just like his brother. It was their gift.

 

“I trusted him to your care – it seems you’ve let us down, my friend.” Kern put the wine bottle down carefully and walked closer to Frodo, slowly bending and putting his mouth close to his ear. He whispered, his breath hot on Frodo’s neck, “What other promises did you break?”

 

Frodo shuddered and recoiled. “He wanted to leave.”

 

“And why was that?” Kern continued, thrusting his face up into Frodo’s even as he physically evaded him by twisting to the left or right. 

 

Frodo threw himself away and paced backwards towards the kitchen door, Kern following hot on his heels, his bigger bulk bearing down on him. 

 

“He’s easily snared, it’s been done before. He was a mewling brat, clinging on his ma’s heels, snagging her dress. When she left, he clung to any stray that raised him a smile. Eager to please, always has been, gets him into trouble. Do you know, Mr Baggins, there are those that take wicked advantage, take what they have no right to? It’s happened before and it’ll happen again, mark my words, it will…”

 

Frodo had his hand on the door latch, his fingers clasping tightly around the cold metal. 

 

“I wouldn’t want to see him hurt like the last. Tore him up, that did, made him weak. We have to look after him, he’s our own, the last of us. So you’ll be telling us where to look, won’t you, my friend?”

 

Frodo thought fast, “I don’t know where he went, only that he was to travel east and swiftly, I believe he was heading back to Bree.” 

 

Kern paused, seeming to consider in his mind. “If you might recompense us for our troubles,” he said slowly, stepping back a little. “I might consider the debt repaid.”

 

“The debt?” Frodo replied, feeling stirrings of revulsion at the thought that Kern might be seeking payment for his brother’s favours.

 

“A small token of your goodwill. Anything at all…”

 

Frodo looked around the kitchen, throwing his eyes wildly at the pots and pans and earthenware, all homely and good, but of little price. All of his finest possessions didn’t belong to him but to Bilbo by rights and nothing would entice him to part with them. It had to be something of his own. His clothes would be of little interest and books were only valuable to those rare souls who prized them. He had gold, but that was limited, all tied up as it was with the smial and its smooth running. He couldn’t give this hobbit Sam’s wages for the month, or the grocery fund, unless he was willing to starve on account of his own guilt and shame. Perhaps that would be fair and proper, but he didn’t want to have to explain it to Sam. The only other thing was his mother’s hourglass. But that was too precious – it contained within it a million grains of memory. 

 

“I have nothing to give you.” Frodo replied, panicking, fearing that Sam might come at any moment and find them. Whatever happened, Sam could not be drawn in. It would be settled and then it would be finished and put away, there was no need to cause Sam any further harm, nor embroil him in the sordid deal. 

 

“Now, now, Mr Baggins, I don’t think that is true? Shall I have a look and choose myself a little gift to remember ye by?” 

 

Kern walked across the kitchen, down the passage and strode briskly into the parlour, his eyes scanning the shelves as he turned into the room, standing where he had stood the evening they brought Asher in, half drowned and senseless. Frodo watched where his eyes now lingered and his heart shattered. 

 

“Now here’s a pretty thing I fixed my eye on the last time I was here.” Kern picked up the hourglass from the mantelpiece, turning it in his broad, clever hands. “Such things interest me – they hold a certain fascination.” 

 

Frodo looked on in horror. “Please, not that. It belonged to my mother. It is all I have of her. I know you have suffered the same, and must know how dear these possessions and keepsakes become.”

 

Kern smiled with amusement as he turned the glass in his hand, watching the candlelight flickering on the sand. “My ma ain’t dead, she ran off with a boater, went off on the water, never looked back.”

 

“Please, put it back,” Frodo urged, feeling prickles of doubt creeping up the back of his neck. 

 

“Nay – I’ll be keeping this.” Kern slipped the hourglass into his coat pocket and began to walk out of the room. Frodo hastened behind, wondering if there was a way to take it back, slip into his pockets like a thief. “Don’t believe the words of a traveller, we tell too many tales,” he said, throwing Frodo a look of malevolent scorn. 

 

Frodo opened wide the front door, the cold air carrying the rousing chorus of a Yule song, raised high on drunken laughter. Kern stepped out and sniffed the sweet smell of bonfires. “Will ye not be joining the party?” he asked, turning and tipping his broad brimmed hat. “Seems the world and his wife are out dancin’ tonight, every lad to his lass, eh?” He winked and laughed and then turned down the garden, pulling his hat more firmly on his head. 

 

Frodo shivered and wrapped his arms around himself protectively, longing for Kern to leave and never return. Moving back into the shelter and warmth of the hallway he watched Kern ambling down the path, toying with the gift in his pockets and whistling into the dark, a sad and lingering melody. Even when he had turned down the road and vanished from sight, the music still hung in the air like pipesmoke and entered Frodo’s heart like a shard of difficult memory that could not be uprooted.

~~~

The air was heady with wood smoke and spice, and filled with the noise of pipes and shouts and crying babes. Stalls had been hastily erected and leant haphazardly against one another and billowing tents of scarlet and orange, blue and black stood behind. Some were tied open with a sign fixed above the entrance signalling what might be found within, others were drawn and enticing, decorated plainly with dark symbols painted on the cloth. A confusion of sounds and scents and bodies swam through Sam’s consciousness as he weaved his way through the camp, following May as she laughed and exclaimed at each new curiosity, longing to taste and to buy, pulling on his hand. Sam struggled to make sense of the faces that swam in and out of his vision; catching fleeting glimpses as he hurried past. A dark eye, a stern brow, a pipe song, would seize him for an instant before dispersing, teasing and releasing.

 

“Sam, look!” 

 

Sam nearly crashed headlong into his sister as she stopped suddenly beside a stall covered in ribbons and lace, silk and embroidery. May ran her fingers down the dripping ribbons, admiringly. 

 

“Have you ever seen anything so lovely?” 

 

Sam shook his head as he watched a figure moving behind the stall, rearranging the folds of the tent behind, speaking to whoever was within. It was dark and the lantern light that hung overhead illuminated only the stall and its fine goods and cast the rest into shadow. Sam’s eyes bored into the dark, searching. The hobbit’s face was fair and his hair was braided and wrapped in red ribbons, he was so alike that Sam’s heart lurched and he moved closer to the stall, peering into the gloom behind with a terrible fascination and fear. 

 

“Looking for something, sir?” The hobbit stepped out of the shadows of the tent where he had been leaning and moved closer to the stall, looking down at Sam with amusement. 

 

“No thank you.” Sam replied, stepping away as he realised his mistake. The stall- holder watched him curiously out of the corner of his eye as he moved away, tugging on May’s arm.

 

May looked up and frowned. “I wanted to buy something!” she cried as Sam dragged her away. “Don’t tug me about so!”

 

“Where’s Daisy got to?” Sam muttered as they were faced with yet more anonymous tents and small moving clusters of half drunk hobbits. 

 

“Sam – look! Over there!” May began running across the camp, across to where three blue tents were set up close against the river. A small group of hobbits were assembled outside, talking and laughing. May was running, her hair streaming out behind her as she waved and called. A few of the hobbits raised their hands in recognition and Sam was able to discern Daisy amongst them and beside her, Tom’s sister, Rose Cotton. 

 

Daisy and Rose were clutching one another and shrieking and as she approached, they pulled May into their circle. Tom and Jolly Cotton grabbed Sam and offered to take him back to the ale tents. Still unsure, Sam looked once more around the crowded tents, thinking of all the places where a hobbit might be lying low, biding his time.   
May was looking at the tent behind her with eager anticipation, biting her lip. 

 

“Sam!” she called, “Sam!” Then she turned back to Daisy and Rose and muttered audibly, “Shall we send Sam in and find out his secrets?” 

 

“Does Sam have secrets?” Rose said, smiling at Sam, her blue eyes twinkling.   
Sam just wanted to get back to the fire and find Frodo. If he wasn’t there by now, he would take a walk up to Bag End and make sure everything was all right. He wasn’t interested in teasing and provoking, nor in the velvet folds of the tent towards which he was finding himself propelled. 

 

“Go on, Sam. It’ll be fun!” Daisy laughed. “We all went in – even Jolly, though he had to be pushed and when he came out he were like a beetroot!” 

 

“Yes, Sam, you have to have a go – no moaning, now, go on!” Rose laughed, pushing Sam through the gap in the curtains and into the dim interior of the tent. 

 

Darkness and smoke and flickering lights disorientated him for a moment as he stood, gathering his wits, trying not to make a fool of himself and run, tearing up the hill. 

 

“Come in, come in, if you’re willing.”

 

Sam walked towards the voice, finding the fitful light and drawing towards it like a moth. In the centre of the tent, he saw a low table and two stools set beside it. Seated on one was a small figure swathed in a red shawl, her hair bound in gold ribbons and her fingers covered in many rings.

 

“Sit down,” she said and held out her hand, palm upwards. Sam sighed, sitting down and feeling in his pockets for some coins, which he laid in her hand and watched her silently and swiftly conceal. 

 

A deck of cards was spread out upon the table and Sam looked down at it with suspicion. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to play any games. I’m looking for someone, I want to know if you’ve heard of them or seen them hereabouts. Their name is Yarrow – four brothers from Bree. The youngest – Asher, his name is – well, he was biding here for a time.”

 

“You’re looking for them?” she said, her green eyes regarding him sternly from beneath her painted brow. 

 

“I want to know if they’ve come back with you – following the fair?” Sam said, his heart racing, wanting this to be over, desperate to find Frodo. 

 

The lady raised her hand and turned the deck of cards upon the table, offering them with a sweep of her eyes. 

 

“Take one,” she said. “If you’re seeking the truth – it is there.”

 

Sam sighed, looking down at the blank faces of the cards with mistrust. There were no answers to be found in illusion, only more puzzlement, but he wanted to please the lady and so he turned one of the cards uppermost and watched a smile passing over her face as she looked down at the picture revealed. 

 

“Are you seeking them for yourself, or for another?” she said, her eyes downcast.

 

Sam’s eyes widened and he shuffled in his seat. “Do you know them?” he persisted.

 

“Turn another card.” 

 

Sam turned five cards and then spread them out on the table, staring at the strange pictures and signs, watching as the lady pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes in concentration. She ran red nails along her brow and shook her head as if she was in fright. 

 

Alarmed, Sam sat forwards on his seat, a cold stab of fear penetrating his heart. “What is it?”

 

“I know those you speak of – they have been here and they have passed on. They carry danger for you and the one you care for.” 

 

“But they’ve gone, now?” Sam stated, longing for confirmation.

 

“Yes, they don’t linger long,” she replied, taking hold of Sam’s hands and running her fingers along his rough palm, turning slowly, considering. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “You carry such treasures in your hands,” she whispered. “Hold them gently.” 

 

Sam looked up at her thin, painted face scored with lines of sorrow. “I will – thank you,” he said and stumbled to his feet. “I have to go.”

 

“Yes,” she said. “You do.”

~~~

The only light in the smial spilled from beneath the bedroom door and Sam walked quietly up and listened, tentatively, his ear against the wood. He wondered if he should knock and then dismissed the thought and pushed the door open slowly.

 

The room was washed gold by the flickering firelight, dancing on discarded clothes, heaps of linen, silk and leather lying scattered beneath the looking glass. Books were splayed upon their backs, pages fluttering. Bedclothes tossed and crumpled, quilt and pillows sliding down into the centre of the bed, where Frodo lay sprawled upon his back, dressed in his finest and best, now half undone, the red waistcoat glimmering like a ruby on his snow white shirt. Golden and lustrous, his face moved restless in sleep, his lips fallen open, dark lashes curving an arc of shadow on his cheek. 

 

Enthralled, Sam came slowly into the room, feeling as if he had no right to, but entering nonetheless. Climbing onto the bed, he knelt beside his master and gazed at him in open adoration, delighting in this quiet moment of peaceful intimacy, knowing at once that Frodo was safe and well, only sleeping. 

 

_Only sleeping…_

 

Sam bent his head and kissed Frodo softly on the brow, watching Frodo’s eyes flickering as he stirred, lashes batting open slowly, focusing on Sam’s face. 

 

“Sam?” he whispered, raising a hand to touch Sam’s cheek.

 

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” 

 

“Come here, lie with me,” Frodo said, guiding Sam into his arms and wrapping his body around him, smoothing his hair and kissing him deeply. “You smell of the fires,” he said. 

 

“You didn’t come.” Sam closed his eyes under Frodo’s kiss.

 

Frodo took a breath, breaking from the kiss with lingering patient laps of his tongue. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”

 

Sam smiled and drew him back, holding him tightly as he moved urgently against him, kissing his throat as he swiftly wound his hands through the tangle of cloth and found smooth, heated skin. 

 

“Sam?” Frodo gasped as Sam closed his hand around him.

 

“Yes, me dear?”

 

“You can go back if you want to, you don’t have to do this, you can go…”

 

Sam looked up in astonishment and frowned. “Why are you sayin’ that?” 

 

Frodo looked at him intently, his eyes full of yearning. “You’re not tied to me, you don’t have to leave your party.”

 

“I know that,” Sam replied, his hand tightening and moving slowly, causing Frodo to tip back his head and close his eyes. “It’s my choice, my choice, don’t fear. It’s what I’m wanting, it’s all I want…”

 

Arching his hips, Frodo’s voice broke on a cry as the log in the hearth split and burst, breaking into a thousand tiny fragments of fire. A distant reel and a pounding drum, a hundred feet dancing on the grass. Sam holding Frodo as he stretched taut, his skin gleaming, pooling shadow into which he dipped his tongue. Frodo’s eyes opening sightless with pleasure and Sam holding the warmth in his palm like gold. 

 

“Like that – that’s how much I love you,” Sam whispered, kissing the tears from Frodo’s face. 

 

The fire was still burning on the Party Field, a tall spire of flame curling into the black sky.


	12. Turning the Glass

The year turned and in came the first fragile signs of spring, drawing Sam back out into the garden, his feet easing into the moist black earth as he cleared the winter growth and revealed the tiny flowers beneath, searching for the light. Snowdrops were shivering under the apple trees, glowing with an ethereal light, and Sam stooped to cup them, sheltered against his palm, where they fluttered, cool and moist. There was a sweet smell in the air and the wind blew warm from the west, carrying with it the promise of long days and a bright garden bursting with new growth. 

 

Working the Bag End gardens once again would give Sam a reason to be up the hill, without having to concoct excuses and implausible demands, just so his Gaffer would not frown and shake his head. His father couldn’t argue against the demands of honest labour. Sam smiled as he picked three flowers, marvelling at the intricate beauty within the folded petals, porcelain veined with vivid green, dewdrops trembling, heavy and swollen, waiting to fall. He would bring them to Frodo and wake him with a kiss. 

 

The smial was quiet and dark, the morning light hadn’t stirred the old timbers and they slept on, creaking softly as Sam moved down the passage and pushed open the bedroom door. Frodo lay on his back, his eyes half closed as his hand rose to push the sleep tangled curls from his eyes. Twisting in the sheets, Frodo sat up and stretched as Sam entered, treading over the soft sheepskin on the floor, feeling the warmth seeping into the soles of his feet from a patch of sunlight that was breaking through the curtains and flooding the thick fleece. 

 

Frodo smiled blearily and opened his arms. Sam checked his breeches for any clinging dirt, brushing them hastily, before clambering up and settling himself against the pillows, reaching out to Frodo and drawing him close, kissing his linen creased cheek and smudged lips still heavy with sleep. Frodo murmured softly and wound his fingers into Sam’s hair, licking lightly at Sam’s lips, causing Sam to groan low in his throat, and fist his hands against the back of Frodo’s neck. Frodo hissed and gasped, pulling his lips away, his body twisting. 

 

“What was that?” he laughed, disentangling their bodies and reaching back to pull at Sam’s arms. 

 

“Oh.” Sam looked down at the bruised and broken flowers in his hand. “I was going to show you these, I found them in the orchard.”

 

Frodo slowly opened Sam’s fist and picked out the withered snowdrops one by one, lying them against the pillow, turning the snow white linen to ivory with their purity. . Frodo looked at them admiringly and touched the velvet softness of the torn petals. 

 

“Truly the first sign of spring,” he smiled, then took Sam’s hand and stroked it and kissed the mud-streaked palm, breathing in the rich scent of the earth, rubbing his lips back and forth. “Thank you, Sam. I’m sorry I spoiled them.”

 

Sam smiled, closing his eyes against a sudden surge of pleasure. “I’ll bring you more – I’ll find a vase and put them in the study, so you can see them when you’re working.”

 

Frodo sighed wearily and let go of Sam’s hand. “You’re right – I should be getting on with something. I’ve been neglecting my duties too long.”

 

Sam smiled slowly and then reached out to pull Frodo against him. “Not all of them, me dear,” he said, slyly raising his eyes. 

 

Frodo laughed at Sam’s impudence and pushed him away, sitting back on his heels. “Samwise Gamgee, what have I done to you?” he laughed.

 

“Nowt that should be regretted.” Sam replied, climbing off the bed and straightening his clothes, his breeches doing little to hide the swelling length within. 

 

Frodo looked at him from the bed, his nightshirt tucked under his feet. “If you’re happy...” Frodo sighed softly, rocking on his feet a little. 

 

Sam beamed and hitched up his braces. “Happier than I’ve ever been, I should think!” Laughing, he left the room and padded out into the passage. “Breakfast?” he called back.

 

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo shouted and fell back onto the bed, his hands reaching out to grasp the flowers and smell the fertile spring.

~~~

While Frodo was dressing, Sam arranged a hasty breakfast, draping bacon into the pan and heaping more fuel onto the stove to heat it fast and crisp. Then he rummaged in the pantry for honey and the thick, fruity blackberry jam that Frodo liked to spread thickly upon his bread. The bread was already sliced, the warm yeast scent filling the air with its tempting aroma, making Sam’s mouth water. He would have liked to steal a slice and eat it now, as he busied himself with the tea, but he resisted the urge, preferring to wait and join Frodo at the table, the pleasure of food being doubled when his other senses could be equally fulfilled. Somehow the taste of blackberry jam was that bit sweeter when he could imagine it curled around Frodo’s tongue.

 

Sam opened the back door and threw it wide, enjoying the soft warm breeze on his face, steeped in the fragrance of dew soaked petals and new grass. Breathing in with a deep and reverent joy, he stepped out onto the doorstep and then, unable to resist he walked further, wading out through the long, wet grass, down to the orchard where the snowdrops lay like patches of unmelted snow. Quickly, he tore up a handful and carried them back to the smial, leaving the back door open so that Frodo might enjoy the beauty for himself. 

 

He found a glass vase in the cupboard that contained them perfectly, the fluted curves holding the tender stems upright as if with a spirit’s breath. Turning the bacon in the pan, Sam walked through the parlour and down the passage into Frodo’s study, knowing exactly where the flowers should be placed. Entranced by glass and curves and fragile beauty, Sam’s thoughts had turned to the hourglass, imagining how it might reflect and distil the beauty of the flowers. 

 

Walking casually into the study, he stopped abruptly, his heels grinding against the fine woollen carpet. As he stared at the mantelpiece, he felt his warmth being stolen away, replaced by a cold uncertain fear. It wasn’t there. He had thought it must be there, it had to be, for it had moved from the parlour shelf some months ago and he had assumed that Frodo had taken it into another room. Sometimes Frodo was a little unsettled with his treasure, and would shift it from time to time, restlessly. Sam didn’t know why, only that sometimes he would share it and sometimes he needed to keep it to himself. Sam knew that there were parts of Frodo that were intimate and deep – too deep for Sam to understand and Sam accepted this as a part of what made Frodo so precious. Therefore Sam would keep his distance from Frodo whenever it seemed clear that Frodo needed to be alone. 

 

Turning on his heel, Sam wandered back into the parlour and looked all around the sunlit room, searching for a glimmer of reflected light. There was nothing, only the usual mathoms arranged in their appointed places, as if they had never moved in a hundred years. Sam knew, of course, that this wasn’t the truth, but both he and Frodo accepted it as such and never spoke of their temporary loss and re-appearance. Sam was certain that the hourglass had never left the smial – he had sat and turned the glass ten times and seen the sand run through before his very eyes. It hadn’t been taken – so where was it now? 

 

Sam wasn’t quite sure why he felt so uneasy, he couldn’t account for the seizing coldness in his heart, but he paced the room and looked in every cupboard and corner, with a wild certainty that the treasure had gone. 

 

If it was lost or shattered – why had Frodo not told him so - asked him to sweep up the glass and sand? 

 

Sam had to ask him and it had to be now, or else he felt he would go mad. Hurrying through, the vase still in his hand, Sam burst into the bedroom and stood behind Frodo, who was bent, half naked, over the wash basin, ringing the water from his hair. Seeing Sam in the mirror, he turned his head in surprise, droplets of water running down his pale chest and pooling in his navel. 

 

“Sam? What is it?” he asked, a slight frown drawing his dark brows together.

 

“Mr Frodo, where’s it gone?” Sam blurted, breathlessly, his knuckles clutching white around the vase. 

 

“I’m sorry?” Frodo looked down at the flowers and the vase and then back up to Sam’s shocked white face. 

 

“I looked in the parlour and the study and all through the cupboards and I know for a fact it ain’t in here!” 

 

Frodo smiled and shook his head, turning to the bed where a clean shirt lay folded on the quilt. “Sam, my dear – I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about…” 

 

Frodo pulled the blue cotton shirt over his head and tucked it into his breeches, wet splashes staining the open collar from his dripping curls. 

 

Sam waited, breathing hard from his nose and trying not to shout. “It’s gone, hasn’t it? Something’s happened to it and you can’t bear to tell me about it!”

 

Frodo buttoned up his braces, pulled them over his shoulders and then drew a steadying breath, facing Sam with exasperated calm. “Sam, can you just stop bellowing at me and tell me what it is you’ve lost?”

 

“The hourglass, Mr Frodo.” Sam said, his heart plummeting. “It’s gone, ain’t it?”

 

Frodo sank down heavily on the edge of the bed and began to card his fingers through his wet hair, looking down at the water droplets dancing on top of the polished oak, soaking into the rich, mellow grain. 

 

Sam moaned and set the vase down on the floor at his feet. “You can’t tell me. You can’t tell me, can you?” 

 

Frodo said nothing, his fingers weaving and raking, his eyes absorbed in the play of light on water on wood. 

 

“Please tell me if you broke it,” Sam continued. “I can try and get another – I know it won’t be the same, but it might help…”

 

“I didn’t break it.” Frodo said softly. “I’m not that careless.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam stopped and sighed heavily.

 

“Sam, really, there’s nothing to tell – forget about it,” Frodo said. “It’s gone.”

 

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Frodo’s refusal to tell the truth brought with it such a strange and unnatural fear that Sam could only gape and stutter and play with the buttons on his shirt. “I’ll finish the breakfast, then,” he said. 

 

Frodo raised his head and there was such a look of piteous longing in Frodo’s face that Sam stopped for a moment and wondered if he should take him in his arms instead. “I’m sorry for it, Frodo,” Sam said softly. 

 

Frodo nodded his head and pushed back his hair, tucking the loose strands behind his ears. “Don’t mention it,” Frodo said, his eyes pleading, achingly open and blue as the strand of sky above his left shoulder, negating every word he spoke. 

 

“I wont” Sam replied strongly. “I wont never speak of it again.”

~~~

In the weeks that followed Frodo went back to work in his study and Sam sank himself deep in the garden, enjoying the peace that the earth brought to his restless hands. Frodo would leave the window open behind his desk to let the sweet air into the stuffy room and listen to Sam whistling cheerfully and talking softly as he worked. It chased away some of the suffocation that arose whenever he closed the study door and sat down in the heavy leather chair, facing the mountain of ledger books and letters that had accumulated over the winter. He had been too pre-occupied to work and had purposefully avoided the study and its dark book lined shelves, sensing how they seemed to swell around him whenever he sat down and faced them. They reminded him too keenly of the responsibilities of his inheritance, and of his own inadequacy to fulfil the task that Bilbo had allotted to him.

 

Sometimes he wondered what would have become of him if he hadn’t gone to Bag End. He had been wild back then and could have followed a number of uncertain paths – even into danger, if that had been his choice. But Bilbo had chosen him for other things – to take on the life that had been to him, a tether and a bind – a life of comfort and conformity at odds with his nature. They were alike in that, and through Bilbo’s tutoring, Frodo had been made to see deeper and further – sometimes further than he’d like. He thanked the stars that he had Sam to settle him and keep him firm, or else he feared he might just drift away, falling into some abyss of his own making. 

 

Recently, the unsettled longing had grown in him like a budding vine, sending him walking alone to catch glimpses of distant mountains and hills, stretched infinitely wide in all directions, spilling over the corners of the little contorted maps that lay beneath his hands. The few that Bilbo had left he had pinned up on the wall and would follow deliriously with his eyes whenever they happened to stray from parchment and pen. The names themselves enthralled him as he mouthed them slowly to himself until they lost their meaning and became seductive syllables and hushed vowels, soft as the sound of the wind on the sea. 

 

Something he had heard only in dreams.

~ ~ ~

Frodo stopped and listened; Sam was making warm throaty noises, as he pulled at the stubborn winter weeds. Frodo smiled long and slow, his pen dropping from his hand, his breathing easing a little as he recalled how Sam would move his mouth in soft sighs whenever Frodo bent to mouth soft kisses along the back of his neck.

 

They made love as often as they were able, usually during the hour of five o’clock, when work in the garden was done and the oven lit for supper. Sam would bring him flowers fresh from the garden and then make careful preparations for Frodo’s evening meal, asking Frodo what he would like best and finding what was needed in the furthest corners of pantry, larder and store, as if he had conjured them there. Often Sam would bake apples, a favourite of Frodo’s – the hot leathery skins bursting open with the swollen apple flesh within – sharp and sweet, with cinnamon and crisp brown sugar on top, and thick yellow cream, waiting to spoon over, rich and cool.

 

Frodo would smell the apples on Sam’s hands as he raised them to press against his lips. Frodo would draw Sam’s fingers into his mouth and suck gently, making Sam hitch up on his heels and moan. Sam would make a pretence at needing to take a look at the roasts, but Frodo would smile and shake his head, silently leading Sam to the bedroom, promising that the meal would take care of itself and Sam would follow eagerly, already unbuttoning as he went. The rich delicious smells of dinner would carry through into the room where they lay, tangled on top of the sheets, their breeches around their ankles and their hands everywhere, slick and soft and needy, warning them that their time had passed. Their love was soft and gentle and quiet. Sam didn’t press Frodo for more than he seemed able to give and he didn’t hear the surging swell of guilt that would open up at will, nearly engulfing Frodo’s passion cries with sobs of painful regret. 

 

Afterwards, Frodo would push his spoon into the soft white apple, swirled with cream and watch Sam preparing to leave, checking off every chore three times just so that he might delay his leaving. Frodo licked cream off the back of his spoon and his heart ached. 

 

“Goodnight Mr Frodo,” Sam would say pleasantly, tipping his head. 

 

Frodo would wish him good night and smile a hollow smile, the good food curdling in his stomach with the awful necessity of such elaborate lies. The lock would swish and snap in the door, closing behind Sam and shutting Frodo up alone once more with another long night to bear. 

 

It had been weeks since they had shared even part of a night together – since May’s return at Yuletide, Sam’s Gaffer had grown strict about Sam returning to eat evening meal as a family, brooking no arguments and Sam had quite naturally complied, apologising to Frodo, but making it clear that he was in no mind to defy his father’s authority. Frodo had been sad, but re-assured Sam that he was right to consider his family and not to forget his duties to them, besides, it was safer for them both, if they kept their love strictly in the bounds of the working day. 

 

In the evenings, Frodo would read in the parlour, curled up on the settee, a mountain of cushions around him, listening to the wind in the chimney and the creaking of the timbers as they settled down for the night. Sometimes he would drink wine and try to drown out the bitter feelings in his heart and the memories that would re-surface whenever he was receptive and alone. Often he would go to bed early and curl up on the sheets, breathing in the scent of Sam’s seed spilt earlier in the day and dried to a soft pale indentation, sea salt and soil under his open mouth as he gasped in the memory of what had passed. It was all too brief and too confined to expel the shadows in his heart that came with the fall of night and the thick darkness of the smial under a starless sky. 

 

Inevitably, the dreams would come. Always the same dreams, but told in different tongues. 

 

_The sun drips into the ink dark sea, disgorging the last light from the sky, enveloping all in shades of crimson and black, edged with silver. The world shifts, the stars wheel, the sea moves with a restless pounding, dragging and tearing at the sand, heaving it up into its belly where it shudders against the waves. The water lunges and grabs at Frodo’s feet, pulling at his toes as if it wishes to drag him in, but his body is so firmly planted, ankle deep in shifting sand, that he cannot move. All he can do is stand and try to resist the call of the aching dark that tries to claim him. The wind is warm and sweet, and carries with it the heat of the dying day as it whips about his head, caressing and playful, trying to draw his attention away. But he doesn’t really feel it – only senses it as he might sense the coldness in the heart of the water. He doesn’t know why he’s waiting on the shore – looking out at the last light fading into the black sea. All he knows is that he is utterly and profoundly alone. That he is here and Sam is not. Sam is such a long way away, that Frodo no longer feels Sam’s presence in his heart. All there is left is the song inside a shell, distant and secret and concealed._

~~~

Frodo woke with a start, the dream stroking him mercilessly as it receded, leaving him with the realisation that he had been clutching at the pillow, nearly stifling his own breath, wet patches on the cotton uncomfortably cool against his cheek. What lingered after wasn’t the pull of the water, nor the sucking sand, but a realisation that Sam was not there and that Frodo had chosen that it should be so. Sam hadn’t been taken from him with a fight, it was more that he had let Sam go and Sam had allowed it.

 

Somehow the realisation of this hard truth was worse than the peril of the water. 

 

Shaking the damp covers down off his body, Frodo sat up in bed, the soft light of the early Rethe morning spilling in through the curtains and over the bed. He felt alert and strangely agitated, as if there was something pressing he must do but couldn’t remember what. Sleep had fled and there was no point in lying in the damp sheets, hoping to recover it, so he decided he may as well get up and breakfast – perhaps surprise Sam by preparing something for them both – it was a favour well overdue. 

 

Frodo wandered into the warm, sunlit kitchen, throwing open doors and windows to the sweet morning air. He cut himself a thick wedge of bread from the slightly stale loaf that still sat on the table from the previous night’s dinner and then felt in the cupboard for the honey jar, dripping a large spoonful onto his bread, in sticky trails. He opened the back door and leaned against the doorframe, feeling the sunlight warming his toes pleasantly as he stood, eating bread and honey and listening to the birds singing in the trees. Sam had plans to plant some new plum trees today. He hoped to train them along the wall so that they might spread outwards and cover the wall with rich, ripe fruit in the autumn. Frodo was looking forward to spending some time in the garden, watching and admiring the way Sam would grow grave and disciplined over his task, his hands instructing and guiding the tree over the stones, bending it to his gentle will. 

 

Suddenly a blackbird gave a warning cry and flew raggedly out of the pear tree, its wings carving disjointed circles of alarm. Something stirred inside Frodo, a tremor, as if the ground were shifting slightly under his feet. The morning felt cooler than he had first thought it and he turned back into the smial and closed the door.

~~~

Sam was twisting twine between his fingers and hooking it around the splayed limbs of a young green plum tree. There was nails strategically placed in the wall, ready for Sam to fix the twine around, pulling the tree taut. Sam put a strand of twine between his teeth and frowned, guiding the branch up and out, holding it in place with one hand, whilst he pinned it to the wall.

 

“Is there anything I can do, Sam?” Frodo asked, watching Sam from his seat under the honeysuckle. 

 

Sam concentrated on his work as he replied, “No thanks, it’s easy enough, Mr Frodo.”

 

Frodo smiled and returned to the book spread open on his knees, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to read. 

 

“Nothing at all?” Frodo persisted, a glimmer of mischief in his eye as he waited for Sam’s inevitable response. 

 

“No, I’m managing fine, thanks for askin’” Sam hissed, a piece of twine between his teeth, muffling his words, his arms reaching to hold another branch in place, taut muscles and tendons straining under his soft linen shirt. 

 

Sam had wanted to plant a gift for Frodo, a growing thing of beauty that would probably outlive them both, if handled with care. Frodo had thought of flowers, but Sam had urged that fruit was something that could be shared and plums were the rarest and held the sweetest nectar. 

 

Frodo rested his head against the green vine that wreathed his head in shadow, allowing his eyes to fall closed and dream. 

 

_He picked up a gleaming dark fruit from the bowl on the table, cutting into it with a swift, curling stroke of the knife, the golden juice running through his hands and down his pale arching wrists. Sam stepped forwards and knelt down at his feet, wrapping his hand about Frodo’s arm and stilling it as he put his mouth against the underside of Frodo’s wrist and sucked, the sweetness of nectar and skin pulsing in his mouth, intoxicating and burning. Frodo gasped and staggered, the fruit crushed in his hand._

_“So sweet…” Sam whispered, turning the hand under his mouth, drawing each finger in and dragging on it with his tongue, making Frodo quiver and lean back against the table for support._

_Sam…_

 

Frodo shifted against the cold stone, feeling the aching heat swelling the front of his breeches, making him uncomfortable and uneasy, as if he were being observed. Standing up, he moved restlessly down the path, closer to where Sam stood, considering his new tree pensively. Frodo walked softly up behind him and laid his hands on Sam’s shoulders, leaning in to kiss him gently behind the ear, desire and a faint buzz of disquiet making him lean in urgently, cleaving to Sam’s warmth. Sam shivered and turned around, holding Frodo loosely about the shoulders. 

 

“I must carry on me dear, I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I’ll be done by five.”

 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Frodo asked, pulling Sam closer, pushing his hips against Sam’s with firm assertion. 

 

Sam shook his head and laughed, heat flushing his face. “Five – o - clock,” he whispered, looking around furtively as he laid small kisses against the corner of Frodo’s mouth, his hips butting gently. 

 

Frodo sighed, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

 

Sam shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned back to finish the work in hand.

~ ~ ~

The study felt cool and dark after the warmth of the sunlit garden, and the dust that hung suspended in the air, fell like a quiet snow in the pale wintery light that seeped between the velvet curtains. Slumping down in the desk chair, Frodo watched with curious fascination, the dancing motes hanging before his hand, settling in an invisible hush against the gentle landslide of papers and books.

 

There is such a delicate balance hanging between Sam and me whenever we are together. It is as if we are made of glass, and are afraid of breaking. A shadow hangs between us, though we would not dream of naming it – little unspoken lies strung as tight as a fiddle, softly reverberate, when we lie quiet. Sam holds me with such reverent care. He will not talk deeply, he doesn’t ask questions, but sometimes, in his eyes, there is such longing and such fear I can hardly stand to look…

 

Frodo opened his eyes and shivered at the tiny breeze that stirred the edge of the parchment lying open before him. The pretty spring flowers in their delicate glass vase curled up their petals and the hair on the back of Frodo’s neck, prickled and stirred. 

 

“Hello?” Frodo asked the empty room. 

 

A space of darkness out in the passage shifted and swelled to fill the corner of Frodo’s eye, soft footfalls sounded on the polished boards and unsettled timbers creaked and groaned. 

 

Frodo turned in his chair and began to rise, but before he could stand, he froze still on the spot and stared. 

 

“You weren’t expecting me?” 

 

Frodo shook his head, his heart beating thick and slow. “Asher…”

 

“The back door was open.” Asher smiled and shook the hair from his eyes, where it had grown thick and tangled, still partly braided, but coiled now with grease and oil. He shoved it back behind his ears with dirty fingers. His eyes sparkled but his breathing was light and fast as though he had been running. 

 

“You haven’t forgotten?” Asher said, stepping into the study, treading with unusual delicacy on the fine carpet, as if he was suddenly conscious of the poor state of his feet. 

 

Frodo rose and walked around the edge of the desk, “What happened to you?”

 

Asher shook his head and walked away, circling the room briefly, his eyes skating nervously over the shelves. He laughed - a harsh, musical sound. “I lost my way.”

 

Frodo leaned back against the desk, his hands tangled in his pockets, delving for something to grasp to keep him firm. “But you found your way here?”

 

“I’ll never forget this road, my friend.” Asher replied, burning Frodo’s skin with his black eyes. 

 

Frodo tried hard to steady the trembling in his hands. “Sit down, Asher,” he said.

 

Asher sighed and sat down in the hearthside seat, looking into the heap of dead ashes and blackened wood that lay within. He paused for a moment, scrabbling at the frayed cuff of his shirt and pulling at loose threads, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip in concentration. “Do you remember, Frodo, in the woods – you made me a promise?” 

 

A dull thud of memory fell heavy in the pit of Frodo’s stomach. “I did,” he replied softly. 

 

Asher stilled his hands and looked up at Frodo with dark and hounded eyes. “I will hold you to that,” he said. 

 

Frodo looked over to the window, where the soft squeak of the wheelbarrow could be heard passing close by. 

 

“You’re still with the gardener lad?” Asher said, observing Frodo’s discomfiture. 

 

“Yes…” 

 

“Is he all you hoped?” 

 

“He is,” Frodo replied, feeling uncomfortable and afraid, his eyes roving from the window to the door in a restless panic. 

 

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Asher smiled slowly, an understanding dawning within. “You never told him.”

 

Frodo turned his back and looked towards the thin light. “I couldn’t.”

 

“What else do you hide from him, Frodo?” Asher replied, rising to move closer. 

 

Frodo shook his head, brushing off the words. “What can I do for you, Asher?” he said, coolly.

 

“You look pale, friend.” Asher’s ale soaked breath was hot against Frodo’s skin. “Love doesn’t become you.”

 

“Can we keep Sam out of this?” Frodo said. 

 

Asher put up his hand and ran it softly through Frodo’s hair. “I’ve missed you,” he breathed. 

 

“Don’t.” Frodo stepped away. 

 

Asher’s hand hung in mid-air and his great dark eyes blinked slowly. “So they came,” he said. 

 

Frodo nodded. “I told them you had returned to Bree, it was all that I could think of.”

 

Asher smiled, his hand dropping to his side, where it curled in upon itself. “They went the other way.”

 

Frodo sighed and covered his face with his hands. 

 

“I saw it Frodo. I came so close I could taste the salt on the wind. I wish I could tell you of the beauty of the mirrored water and the sun as it sparkled in the white waves. It took the breath from me.”

 

“I’m sorry….”

 

“If I had just started out an hour earlier I think I would have reached the water. As it was they found me just miles from the headland.”

 

“They took you home?” 

 

“Back to Bree in the wagon. Since then I’ve been waiting and lying through my teeth. I left them deep in their cups with a heavy price on their heads, I hope they’ll be sent down, Frodo.” He gritted his teeth. “I wish it!”

 

“But you? Where will you go now?”

 

“They’ll be looking for me – I’m worth the most.” He grinned and then his face fell solemn and he looked his age. “You can help me.” 

 

“Do you need gold?” Frodo moved to the desk and started to rifle through overstuffed drawers. 

 

“Are you trying to pay me off?” Asher asked, moving closer, pinning Frodo against the desk. Frodo turned his head away and Asher’s mouth moved softly into the hollow in the curve of Frodo’s neck. “I need to disappear…” he spoke softly. “You have what I need.”

 

Frodo’s thoughts scattered, racing and breaking apart into a thousand fragments, his heart lurching even as his recently aroused body thrilled instinctively to the warm press of Asher’s body. 

 

_Bilbo’s ring…_

 

Realisation rang clearly in his mind and his body recoiled and stiffened, growing cold. “I can’t give you that,” he said. “It isn’t mine to give.”

 

“I need it, Frodo…” Asher pushed down more firmly, sending Frodo bending backwards over the desk. Asher’s eyes were wild and stricken, his pupils engorged pools of ink. “Give it to me!”

 

Frodo struggled to breathe. “I can’t!” he hissed. 

 

Asher leaned to stroke long caresses down the side of Frodo’s throat, where his pulse throbbed hectically. _“Frodo…”_

 

Frodo shifted and attempted to rise, but Asher dragged down Frodo’s hips. “Find it and I’ll go without a word…”

 

Frodo shook his head, his body running with lightening tremors of terror. “No!” he said firmly, pushing at Asher’s chest with his hands. 

 

“It was worth it…” Asher lowered his eyelashes, so that his eyes fell into shadow. “Just a glimpse was enough…” he lowered his lips and brushed a kiss against Frodo’s lips. “The sea will claim me one way or the other.”

 

Frodo closed his eyes and fought down waves of recognition. “Please go…” he said.

 

“As it will claim you.” 

 

Frodo shuddered and felt a wave of helpless acceptance rising within him. “Go…”

 

Asher held Frodo down, clutching at his elbows with a surprising strength. “So you’ll give me nothing?” Asher snarled. “After all I’ve sacrificed for you!”

 

_“Asher!”_

 

“I begged them not to rob you blind. I begged them not to harm you. I suffered for you!” 

 

Pushing Frodo back down onto the desk, Asher brushed aside parchment and ink wells, books and flowers pressed between. Small tendernesses were swept to the floor as he lowered his head and covered Frodo’s mouth with his own long, soft lips, feeling hard reluctance yielding under his assertive tongue. 

 

Frodo felt his body growing weak and passionless, afloat on a warm, roiling wave, curling up and pressing uneasily into the body atop him, bearing him down. It didn’t hurt, there was no pain, but there was a shifting in his mind that made him feel as if his life was draining away fast, like trickling sand.

 

He shifted, his head tilting back as Asher moved his mouth against Frodo’s throat, pressing a burning brand there of teeth and tongue, causing Frodo to tip back his head and draw tearing fingers along the parchment under his hand, in an agonised plea. 

 

Then the door creaked on its hinges and there was a terrible moment of ringing silence before it was heard to close softly back into place. 

 

Gasping, Frodo threw himself forwards, stumbling onto his knees, as he pushed Asher aside, his shirt rumpled and ink stained, his face horror struck. “You meant that to happen, didn’t you?”

 

Asher was silent, pulling at his tattered cuffs and biting at them with his teeth, his eyes startled and afraid. 

 

Frodo stood up slowly, hardly able to comprehend the damage that had been done. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” Asher muttered, his voice muffled behind cloth. “I didn’t mean to do it – I seemed to…loose control…”

 

“You can have it all – it doesn’t matter to me now.” Frodo said, throwing some gold on the desktop, his voice hollow. 

 

“I’m sorry for it, Frodo.” Asher replied, earnestly. “You could still come. We could sail the waters together!”

 

Frodo stared at Asher with cold blue eyes. “That is what you truly wish?”

 

“You’ve already lost him. You could come; we could protect one another. We need fear nothing!” 

 

Asher bent and picked up a splayed book from the floor, laying it carefully on the desktop, smoothing the soft red leather binding with his fingers, placing the dried lavender on top. 

 

“I would have done this…” Asher looked up. “I would have done this for you.”

 

“Go, now.” Frodo said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

 

Asher stood a moment longer, a confused shadow of a smile on his face as he reached out to take the gold, pushing it into his pocket and straightening his clothes. 

 

“I will make amends,” he said, his eyes soft and regretful. “I won’t let this rest.”

 

Frodo watched Asher leave the room and then closed the door, fell to his knees and wept.


	13. The Stars Tremble

Sitting beside the hearth with his Gaffer, half attending to the conversation, his senses dulled with ale, Sam counted down the last few minutes of the day, wishing they would run through quick and fast. 

 

The daily duties played themselves out, inextricable and unavoidable, pinning him in place. Laughter passing through him like a shudder, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, longing to be free. 

 

“Will you have another ale, Sam?” Mari smiled, holding out a brimming mug. 

 

Sam sat up and shook out a smile, “No thanks, Mari.”

 

May turned at the pot sink. “Am I hearing right?” she teased.

 

“I’m happy enough,” Sam replied. 

 

“Well ye don’t look it!” she laughed, the room stilling into silence around the words, stirring ripples of unease. “Don’t he look like he’s got ants in his breeches?”

 

“I’m right enough,” Sam stated flatly, slipping his hand in his pocket to locate the distraction of his pipe. 

 

May smirked as she plunged her hands back into the warm soapy water. “I think Sam has other plans for tonight – he looks right guilty!” Daisy nudged her in the side and she jumped a little. “Well, he does!” she giggled. “He does!” 

 

“If he don’t want more ale, then he don’t, leave him be, poor Sam!” Daisy admonished gently, as she stacked the plates away in the cupboard. 

 

“Samwise – a light?” his Gaffer proffered, holding out a hand for Sam’s pipe, his brows knitted together in a frown. Sam looked up and turned to his father, the pipe passing wordlessly from one hand to another. Somewhere in the middle of this interchange their eyes struck together and Sam found himself captured within his father’s fears and the depth of the pain clutched his heart in a fist of ice, choking his breath. The Gaffer’s hard, thorny thumb passed over his for a brief instant and then released, pulling away to light a splint from the fire. Sam wanted to reassure him, tell him that there was nothing to fear, that all was done and put away, but something in Sam’s soul felt the hollow ring inside those words, and turned its face away in denial. 

 

Sam took the pipe from his father’s hand, warm and smooth against his lips, he rubbed it slowly from side to side, trying to smother and blanket his pain with the memory of soft hands clutching in his hair, hot words whispered against his throat, but this only stirred up a fiercer grief, that stabbed him in the belly like a blade. 

 

The clatter of pots and the laughter and singing of the lasses seemed so remote, it was almost as if he were sitting in a dream and no-one was aware of him, only himself, sitting amongst the illusions, unable to make a connection. 

 

_Something hadn’t been right…_

 

There were things they never spoke of, there were places Sam was afraid to go, things he feared to touch – parts of Frodo that were elusive and strange, knotted and refusing to be unravelled. Sometimes, when he was making love to Frodo it seemed as if he was holding a dream lover, a shade - that somehow Frodo had managed to flee his own skin and drift away. He could never get close enough, warm enough, he could never get enough…when they were apart he craved Frodo with a sick yearning that frightened him. 

 

Perhaps he had known it all along, but could not face the truth. The remoteness, the wandering, the hourglass secretly bestowed…it all started to fall into place; each truth an icy cold stone in his heart, weighing him down. 

 

His Gaffer was asking him a question, but Sam hadn’t been listening and could only turn to his father with a blank face and a tortured semblance of calm. 

 

“Ye weren’t listening, were ye?” his Gaffer said, holding his son in his level gaze.

 

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, dad. I have things on my mind.”

 

“I see that,” the Gaffer replied, taking slow puffs on his pipe. 

 

“So, when will ye be off?” the Gaffer said softly, his eyes averted, watching the flames. 

 

Sam felt a flood of heat rising up his neck. “I … I don’t know,” he stammered.

 

“Will he have need of ye tonight?” The Gaffer continued, watching his son out of the corner of his eye. 

 

“I don’t think so, dad.” Sam replied, his hands turning and twisting the pipe restlessly.

 

The Gaffer leaned in closer and bent his face low against Sam’s ear. Sam froze; he hadn’t been so intimately close to his father since he was a fauntling and would ride on his shoulders, laughing at the sky. The Gaffer’s face grew grave and his hand clasped his son’s arm tightly as he spoke in a low whisper. “Tis a hard thing for a father to bear, to see his son throwing hisself away.”

 

“It’s all right, dad,” Sam replied, tears welling in his eyes and tightening his throat. “It’s all right now.” 

 

The Gaffer abruptly let go of his son and drew away, shifting his frame closer to the fire, coughing into his hand. “Goodnight, Samwise,” he said. “Lock the door when you come in.”

 

Sam rose to his feet at his father’s dismissal and drew in a shuddering breath of bitter relief.

~ ~ ~

Stepping out into the dark night, Sam breathed in the sweet mild air and watched a swollen pale moon sail out from behind an indigo cloud. He didn’t know where he was going but he knew that he must walk, somehow sitting still felt like suffocation. The pain in his heart swelling and blossoming with every passing hour.

 

It eased the sting a little to imagine that this was somehow inevitable - the result of his father’s fears and his own blind passion. Surely he had been blessed even to have had the privilege of a single kiss. To have felt such pure joy for a many months was indescribably precious. Such beauty cannot last – dancing mayflies live for a single day and then they pass away and so it must be with love. 

 

His feet moved over the long, cool grass and down to the banks of the river where it flowed cold and dancing over his feet. Looking down, he saw how his feet were embraced by the soft sinking mud beneath, swallowing him up to the ankles with soft ease, just as his hands were welcomed by the soil, and suddenly it struck him that the earth would like to take him back. It sang to him, stirring something in his blood that moved beyond the realms of reason. He knelt down and rocked on the balls of his feet, staring into a dark, peaceful void. 

 

“Samwise?” 

 

Sam heard the voice behind him, but he didn’t recognise it, the singing of the water was too loud and clear. A hand fell heavy upon his shoulder and he tried to shrug it off impatiently. 

 

“Samwise, I’ve been looking for you - come away from the water!” 

 

Sam heard it, but his body keened to stay and sank a little deeper, lulled by the song, the bottom of his breeches clinging wetly to his skin, the coldness turning warm, drawing him down. Suddenly he found himself pulled back forcibly and his feet slid and were released, Sam crying out in angry protest at the cruel separation. He was dragged onto the bank and held firmly against the grass, spluttering with rage. 

 

“One good turn deserves another…” The voice made Sam’s hands clench instinctively into fists and his stomach heaved as he wriggled to break free. He found himself released once more and he staggered a few steps away. 

 

“Leave – me - alone!” Sam shouted, his voice hoarse with tears.

 

Asher stood on the river bank, wrapping a worn black cloak around himself, the moonlight striking his face into startling relief. “I owe you,” he said. “You saved my miserable life, now I’m saving yours.”

 

Sam looked at him in disgust. “You’d even take this from me!” he said vehemently, rubbing his hand across his face and finding it wet.

 

“I’ve taken nothing from you,” Asher replied, holding out something in his hand, a pale form that reflected the black water and the stars. “Look – I’m giving you a gift.”

 

Sam stepped closer and stared.

 

“Here!” Asher threw the hourglass and it turned three times in the air, shivering sand, before Sam caught it heavy in his hands. “I stole it back for him.”

 

Sam looked down at the precious thing in his hands, heavy as a stone. 

 

“It’s nothin’” Sam said, looking impassively at the treasure he had marvelled over for so many years. “I don’t want it.”

 

“You love him?” Asher replied, shivering under his cloak. “Give it back to him.”

 

Sam shook his head and tried to hand the hourglass back, but Asher stepped away and hid his hands. Sam turned the glass three times, sensing the shift in the dark. “You stole it – you give it back.”

 

Asher shook his head slowly. “Frodo gave no gifts to me. My brothers were passing that about, showing it off as a party trick, a pretty little illusion. Yes, a pretty little illusion, Sam, that’s what it was…”

 

Sam saw a strange remorse in Asher’s eyes as he moved closer to Sam and closed his hand tightly about the hourglass. “Keep it – give it to him – I’m trying to help you.”

 

Sam looked up at Asher and despite the revulsion and pain the words brought him he whispered, “Care for him proper, please. Care for him…”

 

“I don’t care for anyone but myself,” Asher replied. “You care for him. I’m nothing but a curse, I turn up and take what I want and then I leave a mess behind. He didn’t want me, Sam. I forced him to kiss me, it was a kind of madness. He makes me mad.”

 

“He didn’t want to?” Sam said slowly, anger coiling within. 

 

“Not really. He loves you, fool!” Asher laughed. 

 

“Then what were you doin’?” Sam ground out, fighting hard not to strike.

 

“I don’t know,” Asher said, turning his back and searching the far horizon as if he was expecting to see someone. “I couldn’t let him go.”

 

“He’s worth ten o’ you!” Sam shouted, startled by his own rage.

 

Asher smiled. “Then fight for him, if you hold him in such high regard – tell him you forgive him. Make him stay.”

 

“He’s goin’?” Alarm stilled Sam’s aching fists and rooted him to the spot.

 

“I’d hurry if I were you – he’s slipping through your fingers…”

 

Sam hesitated, torn between running to Bag End and knocking Asher to the ground. “Go now and don’t - ever – come - back!” he said slowly, his hands clenching around the hourglass in his hand, his heart hammering in his head, making him feel dizzy. 

 

“I don’t mean to,” Asher replied. “I’m leaving this world for good.”

 

Throwing back his head to frown at the moon in dismay, he cursed and hunching his shoulders, strode out into the fields, heading for the shelter of the distant woods. Sam watched until Asher was nothing more than a sliver of darkness against the trees and then vanished completely, sinking into the night as though he had never been.

~ ~ ~

Bag End was dark, the front door stood open and the curtains billowed at the windows like fleeting ghosts. The hourglass in his hand, Sam stepped over the threshold and listened to the darkness and the silence. Sam took the tinderbox from the hall table and, as he walked down the passage, he struck the lamps alight, flooding the narrow panelled tunnel with yellow light and deepening the shadows that reared up behind.

 

As he passed the open doors, he looked within each one and found them all to be empty and utterly bereft. Hope faltering in his heart, Sam pushed the flat of his hand against the bedroom door and entered as if for the first time, with strange fears and anticipation. The room seemed as vacant as the rest, but for a moth white curve under the quilt, like the wing bone of a bird curled and flexed in upon itself. Sam approached cautiously, treading soft and steady over the old boards, fearing they might announce his presence before wished it. 

 

“Frodo?” his voice sounded uncertain. 

 

The window was open and a cool wind was blowing into the room. Sam moved purposefully across the floor and fixed the latch in place. He turned to the bed, and like a sleepwalker, he drew his hands blindly along the carved bed end, sensing the fruit and flowers coming to life beneath his touch. His hands curled around the bedpost and then moved to the soft white coverlet, cold with long lying, a little dampness, sticky and cloying. The pillows sat as still as hard boulders. He stroked them and then lay down and buried his face, taking deep, shuddering breaths, tasting nothing but the wind and the night. He wept bitterly until he could feel nothing but the twisting in his lungs and the tight constriction of his throat. When he came to, he found himself, shivering on top of the bed, whispering over and over, _“Frodo…Frodo .. Frodo…”_

 

_You’re a fool, Samwise Gamgee, to keep on like a lovesick tween, longing for things which can never be._

 

Rubbing his painful, swollen eyes, he wrenched himself from Frodo’s bed. He decided to make himself some tea and perhaps light a fire to warm him until dawn came and the sun would banish this night away for good. Sam made his way to the kitchen without the aid of a candle. The night was very dark and he stubbed his toes on the furniture as he blundered through, cursing under his breath. 

 

Striking a light from the tinderbox on the mantelpiece he lit a small lamp and several candles. Working methodically, trying to cram out the noises in his ears, he made up the fire and filled the kettle with water. He looked at the low pile of kindling and determined to chop some more tomorrow. Shuffling amongst the pots on the shelves he found the fragrant tea leaves and spooned them into the pot, not counting, and forgetting to put it back in its proper place. The fire sparked into life and was soon blazing brightly. He lifted several large logs, thumping them on heavily, so that orange sparks shot up the blackened chimney. He shuddered involuntarily. 

 

After hanging the kettle up to boil, he sank heavily into the chair beside the hearth. It was old, worn and sagging slightly at the seams but it seemed to fit him comfortably. Pulling his feet up he dragged his shirt down over his knees; it felt warm and comforting. He rested his chin on top and closed his eyes. That was a mistake. It seemed whenever there was space in his mind, Frodo would fill it up, as surely as a river will run and trickle into rivulets and streams, spilling to fill in any empty crease of earth. He sighed. He was tired of fighting. It seemed as though he had been fighting forever. Suppressing until it seemed his body would burst from the pressure of it. He fumbled for his pipe and his little tin, so small and comfortable it fitted snug into the palm of his hand. He filled slowly, trying to keep the inevitable at bay, then he lit it and inhaled the pungent smoke deep into his body. He felt it winding and curling about his toes and began to feel a thawing in his blood. He leaned back, expecting to feel better at once, but the pipeweed seemed to have lost some of its healing properties and was, instead, reaching out its cloudy strands to smother and choke. He sighed and knocked it out against the hearth. 

 

It seemed ridiculous and yet now if he could see him again he would take his face in his two hands and gaze and gaze until he was stupid with lookin’…

 

A thin, high pitched wail pierced through his thoughts as sharp as a knife, every nerve in his body seeming to stand on end. The kettle! Fool! He took a cloth and carefully lifted and lowered the heavy pot, pouring the hot water onto the crushed leaves. Tears feel down his cheeks and burned up on the hot steam. Love tightened in his throat as he stirred the tea round and round, watching the tiny leaves dancing and swirling. 

 

_It’s just I’m so churned up with longings and might-have-beens…and I love you, I love you, I love you more than my heart can bear…_

 

He let the spoon fall with a clatter into the pot and wept into the cloud of sweet steam. He didn’t think he had any more tears to come and yet, here were more. Endless, they seemed. Eternal.

 

_Sam…_

 

It was soft as the sound of the wind in the treetops and it seemed to ripple through his soul. He sobbed twice, loudly, as he tried to regain control. He opened his eyes. All was quiet and dark. Licked with the orange fire glow everything was deeply shadowed. A full moon, sailing out from behind the clouds, flooded the room with a clear cold light. If this was all that he had then it would be enough. He would curl up in his mantle of dreams and be glad. Easing back into the chair his eyes dropped shut with a sudden weariness. 

 

_You’re here..._

 

Sam smiled, his head fell back and his breathing slowly evened. He was on the edge of a deep and blissful sleep. 

 

_Sam, my love, I thought that you would never come again…_

 

So soft on his brow, lifting a stray curl like a breath of wind, it was. Sam sighed.

 

_My love..._

 

Soft across his neck, the light touch was but a flicker of a thought. Sam quietened and all he could hear were his own deep breaths and the snapping of the applewood on the fire, which was filling the kitchen with a sweet fragrance, mingling with the unmistakable smells of grass and trees. He reached out into the air as if hoping to catch hold of a dream. He gasped. 

 

“Sam…”

 

He found his hand caught firmly in a warm clasp. He stayed stock still and held tight, forgetting to breathe.

 

“Sam, look at me.” 

 

Sam raised his eyes and saw Frodo standing beside him, his hair tangled and wild, his eyes shining with sorrow, the smell of the night on his skin. 

 

“Where were you?” Sam said, enfolding both of Frodo’s hands within his own. 

 

“I walked to the top of the hill and I sat down under the trees.” Frodo crouched down beside him and looked up with red rimmed eyes. “I don’t know how to begin.”

 

Sam pressed Frodo’s hand softly. “Did you love him?” Sam said, his jaw tense and his eyes half closed, battling against a wave of pain. 

 

Frodo looked down at their tangled hands. “No. It wasn’t love – it wasn’t that. We lay together for one night, Sam. There was no love, nothing like that…”

 

Sam swallowed and drew a shaky breath, “Then why?” he whispered. 

 

Frodo fell silent for a moment. “There were things I …needed to learn but was afraid to ask of you - I didn’t want to hurt you, but now I see that in doing this I have hurt you beyond measure and I regret it bitterly!”

 

“There was nothing I wouldn’t have given you!” Sam burst, his heart pounding. “Anything you asked I would’ve done!”

 

“I know!” Frodo’s eyes shot up to blaze like fire into Sam’s own. “That is why I could never speak of it!” 

 

“You put yourself in danger and you didn’t let me help you! You could have trusted me, Frodo. I loved you!” Sam groaned. “I love you…” 

 

“I didn’t know!” Frodo sobbed. “I didn’t know…”

 

Sam wrapped his arms about Frodo’s neck and twined his fingers in and out of Frodo’s dark curls that drifted like clouds across the surface of the pale moon. He found the irresistibly curved tip of Frodo’s ear and kissed it softly, feeling the resulting tremor running through Frodo’s skin.

 

“Then we are both to blame and should forgive one another for it,” Sam replied.

 

Frodo clung to Sam and buried his hands in Sam’s thick curls. “I can’t ask that of you,” he whispered. “It’s too much…”

 

“Well, then, it will seem like walkin’ naked in the snow and feeling the cold and not carin’ because it don’t matter – none of it matters – only that there’s all this pure, bright beauty – such beauty I can’t bear it…” Sam groaned at the sharp flame that leaped eagerly deep within. “I want to love you Frodo, but I hardly know how to begin…”

 

In answer, Frodo tugged at Sam’s shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his breeches and lifting it tenderly over his head. Sam’s worried brown eyes gazed back at him like a startled buck, from beneath softly drooping curls of bronze, but Frodo smiled and kissed him with gentle care. Casting aside the shirt Frodo sat back on his heels to look at Sam sitting half in firelight, half in moonlight, capturing and stealing the beauty from both. 

 

“I love you, Sam,” he said.

 

Sam looked up slowly, small bursts of joy startling under his skin to hear the longed- for words spoken so clearly and with such calm certainty. 

 

“I love you better now,” Sam replied. “If that were possible.”

~ ~ ~

Sam lay naked on the settee, breathing hard and fast, watching as Frodo undressed in the light of an old fire, its light made of ashes and embers and the red heart of the oak. Bending to pull his breeches off his ankle, Frodo seemed completely unaware of his own beauty, honey gold in the warm light, his hair dripping into his eyes.  
Unbuttoning his shirt, he caught sight of Sam watching from out of the corner of his eye and laughed lightly, nervously.

 

“Sam! You’re making me feel shy – lying there like that.” 

 

Sam looked down at his own body, unselfconsciously spread upon the velvet and he coloured slightly and turned his face away. 

 

“It’s all right,” Frodo said. “I don’t mind really.”

 

Sam turned back slowly, rolling over onto his side. “Better?” he said.

 

Frodo raised his eyebrows and smiled, tugging his shirt free from his wrists and dropping it onto the floor where it lay in a pool with the rest of his clothes. Then he just stood looking at Sam, the darkly melting desire in his eyes so fierce that it sent a physical jolt through Sam’s skin, turning him to rock and flame. 

 

Shifting backwards a little, he made room for Frodo to slide down beside him, his body thrumming with anticipation. Their faces nose to nose, Frodo gently rubbed his nose up and down across Sam’s, tilting his hips and softly breathing caresses that moved like sweet poetry across Sam’s lips. 

 

“I love you Sam…” he breathed. “I trust you.”

 

Sam felt the weight of the words sinking deep inside him, causing small embers of fire to curl and spark inside. “Oh, Frodo,” he whispered, brushing his lips softly over and over the swollen, kiss stained mouth, feeling Frodo rising up to meet him, his eyes fluttering closed. 

 

“Stay with me,” Sam said, bending to drop a soft kiss. “Don’t drift away.”

 

“I’m with you,” Frodo replied, clutching Sam’s arm. “I need to feel you...please.”

 

Carefully, very carefully, Sam moved to cover Frodo with his broader frame, holding himself on his elbows as he laid his mouth against silken skin and taut muscle, his mouth moving, open and moist over soft rose flushed flesh and eager, grasping limbs. Settling his cheek on Frodo’s chest, he took a dark nipple between his teeth and pulled gently, making Frodo gasp, and then flattened it with his tongue, swirling hard against skin that tasted of ripe plums, overlaid with salt and the bitterness of desire. Frodo’s legs rose and clasped around Sam’s hips, his hard cock digging into the base of Sam’s stomach. Sam felt his own arousal thickening in the soft well between Frodo’s hip and thigh as he dragged his mouth along taut muscles and quivering thighs. Frodo was trembling violently and Sam raised his head to look. His head thrown back in contortions of bliss, Frodo’s eyes were half shuttered and rolling blindly. 

 

“Frodo?” Sam whispered hoarsely, holding his body steady and still. 

 

Frodo’s eyes flickered back into focus and held his for an instant, a pure, brilliant blue encapsulated in porcelain, the dark irises quickly absorbing the colour as Frodo breathed heavy and slow. “I’m here, Sam,” he said. “I’m here with you.”

 

Satisfied, Sam closed his eyes and sank to take Frodo deep within his mouth. Whilst his lips and tongue plunged eager and strong, drawing ragged sobs, his hands moving beneath were uncertain and tentative. Frodo moaned and writhed as Sam tried to still the wild motions of Frodo’s hips and, cautiously pushed a finger within, terrified that he might cause him any pain. Frodo seemed to tense for a moment and Sam waited, trembling, letting the warm, velvet flesh fall from his mouth as he raised his head to look into Frodo’s face. Frodo’s brow was knit in concentration and his eyes were closed. 

 

“All right, me dear?” Sam asked, easing his finger back a little, causing Frodo’s stomach to quiver and dip. He bent his head and kissed it lightly, making Frodo gasp. 

 

His hand spilling out onto the rug, Frodo pushed something towards Sam. Slowing a moment, Sam eased his hand free and clutched for the bottle on the floor. Recognising it as the comfrey oil that Frodo had brought from the pantry, the same that was used on aching joints and knotted muscle, Sam uncorked and poured a generous amount onto his palm, where he warmed it carefully, rubbing it between his hands. It felt safe and familiar, for he had often massaged Frodo’s shoulders and neck with the oil when he had been too long at his desk and the act of rubbing it onto his own skin eased some of his anxiety as he prepared himself, his heart racing with excitement and fear. 

 

Frodo pushed up onto his elbows and watched, tossing the hair from out of his eyes. 

 

“Here,” he said softly, “let me.” 

 

Frodo sat up and took Sam’s hands within his own, palm to palm, moving their fingers together, twisting and twining, slicking his own hands with the pungent oil. Kneeling between Frodo’s legs, Sam swayed a little as Frodo wrapped his hands around Sam’s cock and smoothed the oil upon it, stroking with long, lingering twists, each one nearly pulling Sam over the edge, until at last he stilled and brushing the head lightly with his thumb, watched it shining in the circle of his fist. Then Frodo lay back down once more and waited, silently, his legs curled around Sam’s hips, his breath hitching in his chest.

 

Suddenly afraid, Sam’s eyes darted nervously around the room, fixing on familiar objects as if seeking reassurance from them, his body poised, his fingers flexed and curled around heat and resistance, Frodo’s breathing, soft gasps in the silence, his hips bearing down just a little. Pure white stabs of want pierced Sam low in his belly as he felt his way in the dark, moving against hot, curves of skin that eased under him, slow as a flower opening its petals to the sun. 

 

“Sam…” Frodo gasped as Sam entered, tugging handfuls of Sam’s hair as he buried his mouth against the hot curve of Sam’s pulsing throat. 

 

Sam lifted Frodo’s hips up over his thighs and held him, stroking his lips softly against Frodo’s open mouth, as his hips pushed gently forwards and down. “Like this?” Sam whispered, closing his eyes against the pressure and the heat. 

 

Frodo moaned and raised his hips a little higher, dragging Sam down further and deeper into bliss. _“Yes…”_ Frodo sighed, the tight concentration in his face easing into a smile. _“Yes…”_

 

Sam groaned and held himself steady. “More?” he whispered, rubbing his lips up and down, swallowing Frodo’s quick light breaths. 

 

_“I need…Sam, please…I need you to…”_

 

Sam closed his eyes and drowned in black velvet, lined with silk. Wings were beating around his head as he gathered Frodo around him and moved in a slow dance of darting hips and hands that drew out his soul with a long, exalted cry. As he thrust deeper, Frodo keened and rose beneath him, both fighting to keep the fire at bay that threatened to engulf them whole, gritting their teeth, clutching with their hands. 

 

Too soon it seemed, the pleasure and the heat grew too great and Sam found himself beating and gasping like a butterfly released from a net as Frodo fluttered around him and held him so tightly he pitched into darkness, forgetting his own name and replacing it with another. 

 

_Frodo…Frodo…Frodo…_

 

Bliss, darkness and the trembling stars.

~ ~ ~

“I have something to give to you,” Sam said, as he disentangled himself from Frodo’s warm embrace. Frodo looked up at him with heavy lidded eyes and beseeching hands reached to pull him back down. Sam leaned down and kissed him soundly. “I won’t be long,” he said.

 

Frodo sighed and lay back, pulling the blanket around himself to keep out the chill and Sam could not help but stand and watch for a moment, disbelieving.

 

“Hurry then!” Frodo said, without even opening his eyes.

 

Sam returned quickly, his skin burning against the cool weight of glass that hung heavy in his hand. Kneeling down beside Frodo he put the hourglass down beside Frodo’s curled fist. “Here…” he said. “Open your hand.”

 

Frodo’s hand opened and flexed about the form beneath, feeling the cold curves and sighing deeply. 

 

“He gave it to me – he – Asher – he said he had stolen it back for you,” Sam said. 

 

Frodo opened his eyes and his hand wrapped around the hourglass as his eyes wrapped around his love. “You are more than I deserve,” he said. 

 

“I will speak of him, and I will say his name – then it will loose its power,” Sam replied, clasping Frodo’s hand tightly around the glass. 

 

“Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Despite all – I wish him well.”

 

Sam shook his head as he looked down at his love, still rosy and flushed from his climax. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, me dear,” he said, hesitantly. “Does it matter?”

 

Frodo looked at Sam quizzically and then pulled him down into his arms. “Just keep talking to me, Sam. Keep telling me things…” Suddenly Frodo fell quiet and his face grew grave.

 

“What is it, love?” Sam asked, brushing the hair back from Frodo’s face and looking him deep in the eyes. 

 

“It’s just that – I wish we didn’t have to part. I want to sleep with you every night and wake with you in the morning. I know that it’s an impossible dream and I don’t want to bring you to harm or disgrace but…”

 

“Yes,” Sam breathed, curling his fingers around a dark ringlet and pulling gently.

 

“Sorry, Sam?” Frodo said softly, his eyes lowering. “What are you saying?”

 

“Yes I will stay with you and wake up with you and never leave your side, not this night nor the night after that, nor the night after that,” Sam replied, grinning with pleasure. “And yes, it’s dangerous, but since when has that stopped me doin’ what’s right?”

 

Frodo beamed and pulled Sam closer, wrapping his leg around Sam’s thigh and kissing him passionately. Sam was panting and laughing when they drew apart. 

 

“Thank you, you never fail to surprise and delight me,” Frodo laughed. 

 

“I’ll never leave you, me dear, never…” Sam whispered, pulling down the enfolding blanket and burying his head beneath. 

 

Frodo cried out softly and let the hourglass fall unnoticed from his hand to roll and tumble across the hearth, capturing within its heart, the last of the embers where they would remain cherished and burning eternally. 

 

**THE END**


End file.
